


The Beast Prince

by onceuponanobsessedfan



Series: The Beast Prince [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Curses, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced Marriage, Inspired by a Movie, Isolation, Jealous Enchantress, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Romance, Unrequited Love, Witch Curses, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanobsessedfan/pseuds/onceuponanobsessedfan
Summary: With an obsessive love for the prince, the Enchantress places a unique curse on him--beast by day, human by night. In order for the curse to break, he must marry the Enchantress or remain locked away in his castle for eternity. If anyone sees his true form, he will be lost forever to  a woman he will never love.





	1. Adele's Story

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely based on the Norwegian folktale "The Polar Bear King." Some liberties have been made, of course.

The story of the Beast Prince was widely known in Villenueve. Parents told it to their children as a bedtime story, a cautionary tale against being vain, selfish, and unkind. Belle first heard the story about a month after she moved to the village with her father. She had been watching over the blacksmith's daughter, Adele, a child of seven who had caught a nasty cold from playing in the town's water fountain during a chilly drizzle. Her father couldn't afford to miss work to take care of her, so Belle offered to put the child to bed and stay with her until he returned.

" _To heaven again, dear Gabriel, go. My zeal for you shall still o'erflow; to the empyrean then repair; without my love I'd not go there_."

Belle closed the book she was reading from—Voltaire's "Azolan"—and smiled gently at the coughing redhead. Adele was snuggled in her bed, quilt pulled up to her chin as beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She coughed, then asked, "Will you tell me the story of the Beast Prince?"

Belle knitted her brows and closed her book. She scooted closer to the child on the bed, felt her forehead with the back of her hand, and said, "I'm afraid I don't know that one."

Adele coughed again and sat up straighter. She was on the mend, God be praised, and Belle was delighted at how spirited she still was despite being laid up for nearly a week.

"Papa says the Beast Prince was a man who lived in a castle close the village. He was mean and made people pay a lot of money for his parties."

Belle chuckled. She loved a good story, and Adele was an engaging orator.

"One day, a witch cast a spell on him," Adele continued. "She turned him into a horrible beast—" Adele then made an ugly, grimacing face—"and made everyone in his castle  _poof_! Vanish."

"Oh, dear," Belle said, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. "What happened then?"

"Well," Adele said, "the witch said he'd be a beast forever unless he married her. But the prince didn't want to, so she made sure he would never leave the castle."

Belle's face softened. "That's so sad," she sighed. "So he's alone in his castle forever unless he marries the witch?"

Adele nodded and coughed. "Papa says the beast turns into a prince at night, and if anyone sees his real face, the witch will come and take him away."

Belle looked at her hands in her lap. It was hardly a story for children, at least not in the way Belle knew fairy tales. She was glad the tale wasn't real. Even the thought of so much loneliness and isolation was a sentence she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.

The door to the cottage opened downstairs. Belle turned at the sound, then tucked Adele into her bed tighter. "Don't let your father know you're still awake," she whispered.

Adele nodded. Belle stood from the bed and winked at the child. She held her book firmly at her side and exited the room, walking down the stone steps noiselessly.

She saw M. Benoit at the table, washing his grimy hands in a basin. " _Bonjour, madame_ ," the blacksmith whispered. "Is my girl asleep?"

"Mostly," Belle said. "I'm glad she's beginning to feel better."

" _Oui_ ," M. Benoit agreed. "Thank you for watching over her."

Belle nodded and offered him a smile. She started for the door, then paused, looking over the tall, dark-haired man. "M. Benoit?" she asked.

"Hmm?" he hummed, drying his hands on a dish cloth.

"Adele was telling me the story of the Beast Prince. Where did the legend come from?"

"Legend?" M. Benoit's thick eyebrows shot up. He caught himself and chuckled slightly. "My father told it to me. He insisted it was real."

Belle scrunched her face. "But of course, it isn't."

M. Benoit shrugged. "Who's to say?" he mused. "My father was adamant. Said he had visited the castle once before the curse. He wouldn't tell me what the prince looked like—didn't want to incur the wrath of the witch."

Belle blinked, staring at the man intently. He seemed genuine enough, even a tad frightened. It reminded Belle of certain churchgoers in the village who didn't dare cross over a freshly-dug grave, for fear of inviting the Devil into their home. It was a silly superstition, but then again, who could know for sure until they knew for sure?

M. Benoit smiled warily. "Just a story," he said.

Belle returned the uneasy grin and nodded. "Right." She cleared her throat, then grabbed her cloak from the rack on the door. "Well, I'll be off. I hope Adele's cold is gone by morning."

"God willing," the blacksmith said.

Belle gave him one last nod, then left the cottage. The air was chilly, the last few fingers of winter unclenching from the throat of spring. A full moon bathed the village in silvery light. It was late, far too late for a maiden to be out on her own, but Belle put her hood up and charged through the empty village streets, nevertheless. 

She thought of Adele's story, of how cold and empty a cursed castle might be on a night like this. A wave of pain washed over Belle's heart as she imagined what it must be like to be trapped forever as a beast, with only the moonlight knowing your true form. The loneliness. The despair.

Thank goodness it was only a story.

Belle opened the gate to the garden before her cottage and walked to the front door. She paused and turned to look out over the village, past the rooftops to the very tips of the tall pines in the forest nearby.

_No one should have to live like that_ , Belle thought.

Thank goodness it was only a story.


	2. A Kernel of Truth

The next morning, Belle went to the church to return Voltaire to Père Robert.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you more," the priest said. They were in the rectory where the village's meager library was held. He had his Bible in hand, ready for morning mass. "Will I see you at the service?"

Belle nodded. "Of course."

Père Robert smiled. "You and your father have been a welcome addition to this village. It's nice to see people who are so creative and outspoken."

Belle scoffed and looked away. "I'm not sure about that," she muttered. "The villagers all think I'm odd."

The priest chuckled. "I know someone else who was considered an outsider." He drummed his fingers along the thick, leather-bound Bible he held to his front.

Belle laughed. Père Robert was insatiable in his quest to make Belle and her father regular patrons of the church. He was kind and patient about it, never pushing or judging the two stray sheep of his flock. Belle felt guilty for giving him the impression that she would join the other ladies at Bible study. She was certainly not against God, but there were other books besides holy scripture that were just as adventurous and exciting.

"I wanted to ask you something, Père."

"Of course," the priest said.

"Have you heard of the story of the Beast Prince?"

Père Robert barked a laugh. "Of course. It's an old tale in this village."

"Where did the story come from?" Belle asked.

The priest tilted his head to the side in thought. "I'm not sure. Like most stories, it got passed around through the years. We may never know its true origin."

"But there was a prince close to this province, wasn't there?"

Père Robert narrowed his eyes at Belle curiously. A grin danced on his lips. "I believe there was, a few decades ago. But after so many wars and rebellions, many of those extended families have either been wiped out or simply . . . disappeared."

Belle looked away, considering this. She knew, of course, the story wasn't real--something made up to scare children--but she couldn't get the nagging thought out of her head that it had to have come from somewhere substantial. All stories had a kernel of truth in them.

"Are you well?" the priest asked.

Belle snapped her attention to him, then offered a polite smile. "Yes. Sorry." She bowed her head in respect and said, "I'll see you in mass, Père. Thank you again for the book."

"It is my pleasure."

As Belle left the rectory, Père Robert watched her go, a spark of wonder in his eyes. Though the town thought she was odd, the priest never fit a label to her so cruel. Now, however, with her questions mulling in his head, he admitted that there may have been something . . .  _unique_ about her.

***

After mass, Belle and her father were strolling through town back to their cottage. She had her arm looped through Maurice's, the sun warming her freckled face.

"Did you enjoy the sermon, Papa?" Belle asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Though I prefer a Latin liturgy."

Belle giggled. "You don't even speak Latin."

"Exactly!" Maurice said. "Makes it easier to learn."

Belle laughed, then stopped dead in her tracks and yelped when a bouquet of pink and yellow flowers were thrust in her face by an unseen hand.

" _Bonjour, mademoiselle_!" A booming voice called.

Belle took a step back and saw Captain Gaston grinning suavely at her. She suppressed the urge to frown. "Ah, good morning, Gaston. You—"

"Look incredibly handsome?" he finished.

"Startled me," Belle admitted. She looked at her father. He was frowning.

"Gaston," Maurice muttered. It was a cool, sharp greeting. He urged his daughter along, but Gaston blocked their path once more.

"I wonder if I could have a word with your daughter?" the Captain asked.

"Anything you can say to her, you can say to me," Maurice replied.

Gaston dipped his head and chuckled.  _Foolish old man_ , the laugh said. "I assure you, sir, there are many things that I want to say to Belle that I can't say to you. I'd hate to make an old man blush."

Maurice's face turned red, alright, but it was from anger. To diffuse the situation, Belle slipped her arm away from her father and said gently, "It's alright, Papa. I'll be along in a minute."

Maurice gave one last, icy look at Gaston, then continued down the street to the cottage. Before Belle could blink, Gaston shoved the flowers in her face again. "I saw you leaving the blacksmith's home last night," Gaston said.

Belle pushed the flowers aside. "Yes. And?"

Gaston flung the flowers away to the gutter. "And a woman of your delicacy shouldn't be alone in a widowed man's house. People talk."

Belle rolled her eyes and began walking away. "I don't care what people think."

Gaston followed the headstrong girl and added, "It wouldn't be so strange if people knew you were engaged. Especially if you were engaged to a rugged, dashing war hero like myself."

Belle stopped. Clamped her eyes shut. She turned and looked at her brawny suitor--his smug smile, his boorish demeanor--and said, "I'll make a deal with you, Monsieur Gaston. If you can tell me the name of the man who killed Hamlet's father, I'll agree to marry you."

Gaston's pompous smile melted. He squinted at Belle, emitting a long, high squeak from his mouth. He finally held up his hand and said, "Let me show you how many push-ups I can do. It's extraordinary."

He dropped to the ground and started counting his push-ups. Belle rolled her eyes again and stepped around the man. "If you can do a thousand, I'll marry you," she called. A small part of her was frightened that he actually  _could_ do such a feat in one sitting, but then she shook her head and reminded herself that even a man like Gaston had his limits.

As Belle neared her cottage, she could still hear Gaston counting his push-ups. A crowd was forming around him, awed and inspired. She entered her tiny home and her father was at his work station, tinkering with tiny gears and grease. He had a jeweler's loupe in his right eye and looked up at his daughter when she entered.

"I don't like that man," Maurice said.

"You and I may be the only ones," Belle chuckled.

"He's so arrogant and rude," Maurice said, resuming his work. "Not at all the kind of man you deserve."

Belle smiled and stood beside her father at his table. "And what kind of man do I deserve?" she spurred.

"You deserve every happiness in the world. With or without a man." Maurice paused and added, "Preferably without, because no man will live up to my expectations."

Belle laughed and kissed her father's head. "You're the only man for me, Papa.”

***

The Enchantress poured her prince a glass of champagne and grinned. He was particularly gloomy tonight. Not even a fire and a lavish meal she had conjured could rouse his spirits. Then again, _nothing_ seemed to rouse his spirits since she had placed the curse on him all those years ago.

“Smile, my love,” Enchantress said. She brushed her long golden locks over her shoulder and leaned down to Adam as he sat in his dining chair. Her cleavage was prominent in her tight gold dress, the glittering train casting sparkles on the walls from the firelight.

Adam turned his head away as she caressed his jaw line. “Stop it.”

Enchantress laughed and stood. She took her glass of champagne and said with a pout, “How long must we dance like this? I know how lonely you are here. Just say the word—”

Adam bolted from his chair, nearly knocking it to the ground, and turned away from the sultry woman. He detested her voice more than anything—more than her cold hands and black eyes. It was soft and babyish, tinged with barbs of ridicule. She knew how powerful she was, the power she had over him, and he as nothing more than a plaything for her to dangle around.

The witch’s hands came from behind Adam and snaked down his chest. He wore his undershirt and breeches, refusing to dress or bathe in any way that would make the woman happy. He couldn’t control many things, but at least he could control that.

“Darling,” the Enchantress whispered in his ear. “I can make this all go away.” Her arms were now wrapped around him, hands trailing down his stomach to his waist. “We can be happy. We can.” She placed a hand over his crotch and squeezed gently.

“Enough!” Adam bellowed. He turned to push her away, to strike her, to do anything to get her off of him, but she was gone. The dining hall was empty, food and drink vanished, fire doused out. He was alone in the darkness of his castle, the moonlight his only companion.

A small part of Adam wanted to call her back, to feel her hands again. He missed human contact. He missed seeing other people’s faces, hearing their laughter, watching their eyes move as they talked. He missed so many things.

The clock on the fireplace mantle chimed. There were two more hours until sunrise.

Adam fell to the floor, cradling his face in his hands, and wept.


	3. Strange Conditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting all these comments, so thank you! You're all so sweet! I redacted names and dates in the letter because I didn't feel like doing further research. Enjoy!

The next morning, Belle awoke to a loud whooping. Startled, she jumped out of bed, put on her robe, and raced down the stairs. Her father was by the front door, dancing a sprightly jig with a letter held high over his head.

“I won!” he cried. “I won, I won, I won!”

“Won what, Papa?” Belle asked. She went to his side and he handed her the letter, the sloppy brown wax seal sliced through haphazardly. She unfurled it and read carefully.

_The judges of the township of Bonne Terre hereby congratulate M. Maurice ------ on his first-place award of Best Mechanical Device at the county fair in the year of our Lord, 17--. The winners of the contest must claim their prize in person—_

That was as far as Belle got before she joined her father in cheering and jumping excitedly. “You won!” she exclaimed. “I knew you would, Papa!”

Maurice embraced his daughter and kissed the top of her head. “I must pack!” he said, frantically running around the cottage. “Do you know what this means for us, Belle?” He was in his room, emptying his drawers into a canvas bag. “We’ll finally make it! A steady income, if these music boxes sell.”

Belle chuckled, leaning against the door frame of her father’s room. She watched him stuff his canvas bag to the brim. “Most importantly, they’re finally acknowledging your hard work.”

“Yes,” Maurice turned to his daughter, an impossibly large smile on his face. “And next year, you’ll enter at the fair and make an even bigger splash!”

Belle laughed. She helped her father pack, wrapping loaves of bread and cheese in cloth and filling a gourd with water. Soon, they had Philippe saddled and Maurice put on his riding hat and cloak. He gave Belle a peck on the cheek and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Belle hugged him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Papa.”

He chuckled, kissed her head, and heaved himself onto the horse. Philippe whinnied, and as they rode away from the cottage, Maurice waved and yelled, “Tomorrow!”

Belle waved back, grinning from ear to ear.

***

Not twenty minutes into his ride, Maurice was lost in the thick woods surrounding Villaneuve . He had taken only one road to Bonne Terre when he submitted his music box last week. The ride was smooth and uneventful, but now, with a fallen tree blocking his regular path, he guided Philippe down a darker trail.

The horse huffed and whinnied as they rode, their path a thin sliver of black dirt. The trees seemed to close in around them the further they got, clawing at the overcast sky like haggard fingers. Maurice looked up as something wet landed on his cheek.

Snow.

“Huh,” the old man mused. It was not uncommon for Villaneuve to have snow in May, but given how warm it had gotten in the last few days, he was surprised to see himself suddenly surrounded by an all and out flurry.

Philippe stopped on the path and kicked irritably. Maurice tugged on the reins and clicked his tongue. “Come on, now, boy.”

But the horse wouldn’t move.

As snow swirled around them faster, Maurice lit his lamp and tried to see through the blizzard. He started to turn Philippe back to find another way, when a long, loud howl of a wolf pierced the air. Philippe neighed, startled, and dashed down the path at lightning speed.

“Stop, stop!” Maurice cried. He dropped his lamp in the chaos, his flat flying off a few yards back.

More wolves echoed around the trees and Philippe galloped as though his tail were on fire. Maurice yelled and pleaded with the gelding, until a hole in the path tripped up the animal, sending Maurice flying through the air. The old man’s head encountered a tree and his vision went dark before he even hit the ground.

Before fading away completely, the sound of another animal rumbled in the distance. It was neither wolf nor horse, not like anything Maurice has ever heard before. Whatever the beast was, its deafening roar was enough to drive away the wolves.

***

Belle gasped and dropped her book as a loud knock sounded at her cottage door. She had just finished with the washing and had hung them to dry on the line outside. Before tending to the garden, she thought she’d get lost in some Shakespeare. Until the stranger arrived.

Belle stood from the table and went to the door, looking through the peephole. It was Gaston. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and opened the door just slightly. The large man barged through like a stiff wind.

“Hamlet!” he announced.

Belle closed the door and leaned against it, cocking a brow. “What?”

Gaston turned and smiled arrogantly. “Hamlet obviously killed his own father because he wanted to marry his mother. It’s the classic tale of man’s insatiable lust.” The Captain cleared his throat and got down on one knee. “We’ll have the wedding this weekend and honeymoon in Paris.”

Belle stared at him, dumbfounded. She couldn’t decide what was stranger—the fact that Gaston knew even a little about Oedipus, or that he truly thought Belle would drop everything and run into his arms.

“Monsieur, I don’t know how else to tell you . . .” She sighed, exasperated. “I’m afraid you’re just not the man I’m looking for.”

Gaston laughed and rose from his knee. “Oh, I do love how naïve women are. Like children.” He took Belle’s hand and pulled her closer to him. “What else could you _possibly_ be looking for?”

Belle jerked her hand away. She realized she would finally have to be harsh. “Not you,” she insisted. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have to leave. My father—”

“Is away,” Gaston interrupted. He moved closer to her, backing her against the door with his arms at either side of her. “I saw him riding off this morning. We’re all alone.” He smiled, flashing his pearly white teeth.

Belle slithered down the door and under Gaston’s arm to escape. He groaned and turned to face. “What will it take, Belle?” he demanded.

Belle drew in a deep, cool breath through her nose. She turned to him and said, “In ancient Egypt, the pharaohs were mummified after they died. Their organs were taken out and placed in jars. A hot poker was jammed up their noses, their brains scrambled, then pulled out through their nostrils.”

As she spoke, Gaston made a disgusted face. It was his turn to back away slowly towards the door. “If my brains were removed through my nose and my organs placed in sacred jars, then— _only then_ —would I even consider marrying you.”

Gaston’s back was against the door now. He was scowling, hands clenched. He pointed to Belle and said, “I’ve hunted many animals, Belle. Every beast I’ve cornered has never gotten away. The fear . . . it makes their meat all the more tantalizing.”

Belle’s heart sank to her knees. Her fingers turned cold as his ominous confession. Gaston smirked, opened the door, and left as swiftly as he had entered. When he was gone, Belle walked backwards to the table, grasping for her chair. She sat down and put her hands in her lap, staring at the floor for a good long while. The image of Gaston biting into a still-living creature, blood pouring from his mouth, was all she could think of.


	4. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Belle will be meeting the prince in the next chapter.

Consciousness came to Maurice in spurts. One moment he could see a dark gold canopy above him, then he would be lost again to darkness. Another time, he smelled oolong tea and wet fur but his eyes refused to open. Each something came into focus—a sound or a smell or the glimpse of a glittering object, his head throbbed.

Finally, Maurice’s eyes opened and stayed open. He blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings. He was on a plush four-poster bed, satin sheets snaked around him haphazardly. He looked to his left and saw an intricate end table adorned with white roses in a delicate china vase. A fire roared in an alabaster hearth. Sunlight poured into the decadent room, the heavy red velvet curtains drawn back.

Maurice sat up and winced. He touched his head and felt a cloth bandage wrapped around his crown. He looked around the room once more, taking in its fine rose-patterned tea set and walnut writing desk and Persian rugs and gilded candelabras.

“Hel—” Maurice cleared his throat; barely a whisper had escaped him. “Hello?” he called.

Silence.

The fire crackled. There was a rustling outside the chamber door.

“Hello?” Maurice called again.

The door to the room opened ever so slightly. “Hello,” said a gruff voice.

Maurice stared at the door as if to see through it to his host. “Am I . . . where am I?” he asked.

The door remained ajar but the person didn’t come through. “You’re in my castle,” said the man. He had a low, rumbling timber to his voice. Toothy. Almost like he was holding marbles in the back of his mouth.

Maurice touched his head. “I’ve had an accident . . .”

“Yes,” the man agreed. “But you’ll live.”

“Will I?” Maurice asked, hopeful. The situation was strange—this man had saved his life but wouldn’t show his face. Since he had something to hide, Maurice wondered if his intentions were all that good. “Come into the room,” he said.

A silence punctuated their conversation.

“I’m not sure I should,” the man finally said.

“Please,” Maurice said. “My head is aching. I’ve woken in a strange place. Please—please put my mind at ease a little.”

The man behind the door huffed, though it was more like a snort, the kind Philippe gave when he was tired from a long journey. “You must promise not to scream,” said the man.

Maurice held his bedsheets tightly, anticipating his host’s reveal. The door opened wider, slowly, so slowly that it made Maurice’s teeth ache, until finally a large, cloaked figure stepped though.

Maurice’s mouth fell open. He stared, praying this was simply a hallucination from his injury.

The man wasn’t a man at all, but a seven-foot tall beast with horns, thick brown fur, and a pair of sharp fangs. He stood at the door, making no other movement, but watching Maurice carefully.

A dream. This had to be a dream. Maurice blinked once, twice, rubbed his eyes, then uttered simply, “Oh.”

The beast’s eyes danced nervously around the room. Then he stepped forward to the writing desk by the window and began preparing tea. “Your horse is in my stable,” the beast said. “The wound on your head doesn’t need stitches, but it may take some time to heal, regardless.”

Maurice could only stare at the mighty creature. He could hardly believe he was talking to an animal, let alone sleeping in its castle. When the beast turned with a teacup and saucer, the old man jumped.

The beast stopped, frowning. He cleared his throat and brought the tea to Maurice’s end table. Belle’s father eyed the drink, then took it with shaking hands. He sipped slowly. It was good.

“Do you have a name?” Maurice asked. He thought that maybe pleasantries would make all this absurdness palpable.

A glint of light shined in the beast’s blue eyes. He stood tall and said, “Adam.”

“Adam,” Maurice muttered. He set the cup down and extended his hand. “Thank you for saving my life, Adam. I’m Maurice.”

The beast— _Adam_ —looked at the old man’s hand, then slowly took it. He wanted to shake it for as long as his guest would allow, but pulled away quickly so as not to frighten him.

Maurice cleared his throat. “Um . . .” he chuckled nervously. “This is quite awkward, but how—how are you . . .?” Maurice waved his hand in front of the beast, grasping for the words.

“I’m real, if that’s what you’re asking,” Adam said. He turned and went back to the writing desk to prepare himself a cuppa. “The less you know, the better,” he continued. “All you really need to understand is that I mean you no harm.”

“Yes . . .” Maurice murmured. “Yes, of course.”

Adam glanced behind his hulking shoulder. “You’ll need a fresh bandage soon.”

Maurice touched his head. “How do you know so much about nursing?”

Adam carried his cup to the bedside, pulled a chair from near the fireplace, and sat down. “My father was a hypochondriac. Not a day went by without a doctor nipping at his heels.”

Maurice found himself snickering. “Your father, was he . . . like you?”

Adam looked at the man from over the brim of his tea cup. It was like a child’s toy in his enormous paw. “Yes,” he admitted. “But he was only a metaphorical beast.”

Maurice nodded in understanding.

“ _Quae est vita_ ,” the beast said.

The old man smiled. “Was that Latin? You speak Latin?”

Adam paused, set his cup down, and suppressed a grin. “I speak many languages. I had an excellent tutor growing up.”

“Yes, you must have,” Maurice said, looking around the room. “Where are your staff? Your family?”

The light went out from Adam’s eyes and he frowned. “I’m the only one who lives here.” He stared beyond Maurice, beyond time itself, lost in a daze of bitterness and sorrow. The finally Adam stood and went to the door. “I’ll get you some food,” he said.

“How long am I to stay?” Maurice asked.

The beast stopped, hand on the knob. He looked at large grandfather clock by the writing desk. “The sun sets in four hours. You’ll need to be gone by then.” Adam chanced a look at Maurice from over his shoulder. The old man had a puzzled look. It stabbed his heart like a cold needle.

“I wish you could stay longer,” Adam said, turning his head back around. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and slammed it shut harder than he intended.

The sound carried through his empty castle like a thunderclap.


	5. Sweet Buns and Stew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter for you extra-awesome people! I'm so pleased to have readers who are liking the story! I can't thank you all enough! <3

After weeding the garden, folding the laundry, and baking a fresh loaf of bread, Belle was surprised to see it was nearly sunset. There were no more unsolicited visits from Gaston, or anyone else for that matter, and Belle was pleased by it. It gave her time to read, time to draw, time to think of an invention that might keep someone like Gaston permanently away from her front door.

As the sun dipped below the trees, Belle heard the familiar sound of hooves against cobblestone. She looked out the front window and saw a figure riding down the street to the cottage—an old man slumped over, head bandaged, hands limply clutching the reins.

“Papa!” Belle exclaimed.

She raced outside and pulled Philippe to his post, helping her weary father off the saddle. He mumbled something, wobbled on his feet, then clutched his daughter’s shoulders for leverage.

“Belle,” he breathed.

“Papa, what’s happened?” she cried, touching the dried blood on his bandage. “Are you alright?”

“Fell . . .” Maurice murmured. “Wolves everywhere. He came . . . ”

Belle took her father’s arm and ushered him towards the cottage. “You’re delirious. We have to get you inside.

“Bedroom . . . gorgeous!” Maurice exclaimed. He was slurring, stumbling on his feet like a newborn calf.

Finally, Belle got him inside and laid him in his bed. She retrieved water from the kettle and a clean rag, then sat beside him to inspect his wound. As she reached for the bandage, Maurice caught her by the wrist and said, “He saved me. He saved my life.”

“Who?” Belle asked.

“The beast,” her father exclaimed. His eyes were wide with excitement. “He made me tea. He spoke Latin.” Maurice laughed. “He could have ripped me to shreds, but he spoke Latin and fed me porridge!”

Belle unwrapped his bandage and dabbed the cloth on his wound. “You have a concussion, Papa. You need rest.”

“I’m not mad, Belle!” Maurice cried, sitting up. His head spun and he leaned back on the bedframe, touching his right temple. “I swear it on my life. I was in a castle. There was a great beast and he . . . he made me a fire and—” Maurice’s eyes lit up suddenly and he snapped his fingers at Belle. “My bag,” he said. “Look in my bag. He gave me a rose from his garden.”

“Papa—”

“My bag, Belle! You must believe me!”

“Alright, alright,” Belle whispered soothingly. “I’ll look in your bag. But you must promise me you’ll rest. Please.”

“I promise,” Maurice said, nodded.

Belle gave her father a wary look, then rose from the bed. She exited the cottage and crossed the garden to Philippe’s post where he was drinking greedily from his trough. Her father’s bad was still tied to the saddle, still bulging with his clothes and food. Belle untied it and pulled out a shirt, then a stocking, then a wedge of cheese she had packed for him earlier that morning.

Belle gasped as her finger encountered something sharp. She got a hold of the object and pulled it from the bag, bent but not broken.

It was a thorny red rose.

***

Belle couldn’t sleep that night. Not only was she worried about her father’s concussion, but she couldn’t get his story out of her mind. A beast in a grand castle. Oolong tea and satin sheets. She thought of the tale Adele had told her of the Beast Prince. It frightened her to think it was real.

Then again, perhaps Maurice had heard the story, too. Perhaps he had plucked a rose from the path to Bonne Terre and simply forgot. Perhaps his concussion clouded his injured brain—melding fiction into reality in a fever dream of fantasy.

Belle tossed and turned. She could hear her father snoring in his room below. It was curious how he managed to dress his own head. None of his clothes had been ripped to devise a makeshift bandage. She sighed and looked at the rose laying on her bedside table.

“ _So he's alone in his castle forever unless he marries the witch_?” Belle had asked Adele.

Forever was a devastating word.

Belle threw her covers off and jumped out of bed. She put on her slippers and robe, tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, and lit a fire under the stove. She baked until sunrise.

***

Adam paced nervously around his castle that night. The excitement of finally seeing someone knew after so long made him want to jump out of his skin. He worried that his conversational skills had died over the years, but not only had he made the old man laugh, but he had excited him with talk of languages.

Adam smiled as he paced the ballroom. Cobwebs hung on the chandeliers like Spanish moss. His bare feet kicked up dust and grime. _I made him laugh_ , he thought. _I made him laugh._

He paused, wondering if he had been kind enough, inviting enough, a good enough host to warrant another visit by the man. He should have given him a larger room, something better to eat than porridge. After years by himself, he had learned to cook nearly everything in the three volumes of cookbooks in his library. Coq au vin would have been better. Hell, even ratatouille. Next time, if there even was a next time, he would make a banquet fit for a king.

Adam looking out at the large windows to the night sky. A sliver of darkness covered the moon into a waxing gibbous. The witch would not come tonight. It was a power play, knowing how lonely and desperate for company he was, so that when she did finally come back, he nearly leapt into her arms just for the touch of another human.

He hated how effective her game was.

Adam brushed the thought away and paced once more. When walking became tiresome, he went to his library and searched for a recipe. The books themselves were arranged haphazardly. Not long after the curse was cast, he had clawed nearly every book from the shelves in a fit of rage. Time and boredom allowed him to put them back—all 306,000—but he was hopeless about classifications.

The prince found the recipe he was looking for and carried the large cookbook to the main kitchen. He gathered vegetables and meats, herbs and spices, all provided by the Enchantress. She was cruel, but not cruel enough to let him starve.

Adam busied himself making stew, chopping veggies, and setting the long dining hall table. He thought about taking a bath, but then realized how wasteful it was since he would be transforming into the beast soon, anyway.

He lit the last candle of the candelabra on the table, planted the stew pot carefully by the guest’s table setting, and sat by the roaring fire. Adam dozed. The fire died as he slept, and when the first gray light of dawn crept into the castle, he felt the pull and pinch and twisting of his transformation taking place. It was painful, but he was used to it by now.

***

At first light, when her sweet rolls were cooled and packed away in a basket, Belle went to the church and asked Pére Robert to stay with her father for a few hours. She explained that he had suffered an injury, was delirious and confused, and that the priest should not take any fantastic story Maurice said as truth.

“Will he be alright?” Pére Robert asked, walking with Belle to her cottage.

“I believe he will,” she said. She turned her face away from him and added, “I’m going to fetch the doctor from Bonne Terre, just in case. I’m sure I’m overreacting, but—”

“Not at all, _mademoiselle_ ,” the priest said.

Belle smiled weakly, her stomach churning at the lie she had just told.

With Philippe saddled once more, Belle kissed her father’s forehead as he slept. “I’ll be back soon, Papa,” she whispered.

The old man stirred but didn’t awaken. Belle said a farewell to Pére Robert and climbed onto Philippe’s saddle, basket in hand. As she rode slowly through town, she glanced back at her cottage. A pinprick of fear pierced her gut.

As Philippe trotted along through the forest, Belle mentally prepared herself for what she was doing. Ever the scientist, she weighed the possible outcomes and their variables.

  1. The beast was a fantasy Maurice had either dreamt or hallucinated.
  2. If he were a fantasy, then Belle would lose nothing by simply strolling through the forest.
  3. If the beast were real, his existence would challenge every truth she thought she knew about the world.
  4. Then again, if he was as kind as Maurice made him out to be, then it also must have been true that he was human underneath it all. A human who needed help.



A half hour or so into her ride, Philippe veered curiously onto a darker, rugged path. Belle didn’t try to deter him. After all, he might’ve been the only one who knew the way to the castle. A few yards in, snow began to gather on Philippe’s mane. Belle looked upwards, puzzled by the sudden flurry.

A wolf howled in the distance. Belle gasped, and at once her horse sprang into a run. She gripped the reins tightly, urging him to slow down. There were no wolves in sight, but Philippe seemed to know something she didn’t.

The snow stung Belle’s face. She closed her eyes, praying for relief, when the horse suddenly slowed to a trot. She opened her eyes and gaped at a large wrought iron gate before her. Beyond the gate was a dark, gloomy castle.

“It’s real,” she whispered.

The gate suddenly opened and Philippe carried them through. Belle gazed around the snow-covered gardens, at hedges that were overgrown and crumbling archways adorned with grotesque gargoyles.

They reached a stable by the entrance and Belle tied Philippe up. She gathered her basket of baked goods and made her way up the grand stone steps to the doors. Belle knocked. She felt foolish, standing idly at a towering castle as if she were welcoming a new neighbor. She knocked again, then pushed on the door.

“Hello?” she called, entering the castle. It was dark and cold, like a tomb without the smell of rotting bodies. In fact, something in the air smelled quite delicious—a stew or a _velouté_.

Belle closed the door behind her and called again. “Is anyone here?” Her voiced echoed around the great hall.

Adam was watching her closely from the moment she opened the castle door. He stayed hidden behind the banquet hall door, peeking through a crack. His heart overflowed with joy and excitement at seeing her. He had hoped but didn’t expect another visit, least of all from a beautiful woman. She must’ve been from the village Maurice had talked about—a country girl in a country dress with a simple, country blue ribbon holding her hair back.

She was the most stunning woman he had ever seen.

Adam began opening the door, then stopped. What if this was a trick? What if Maurice had told the village of the beast in the castle, and now he would be inundated with tourists? “See the freak,” they’ll say. And they’ll charge two livres admission. Then, God forbid, someone would come at night just to satiate their curiosity, and once they had a good look at his human form, the Enchantress would finally get her hooks into him.

“I wanted to thank you for helping my father,” Belle called.

Adam straightened. Her father? That old, amusing, bumbling man was responsible for such a heavenly creature? If she was as kindly as Maurice, perhaps her intentions were good.

“Hello,” Adam said.

Belle gasped and stopped. She turned her head to the banquet doors where the prince was still hiding. “Hello?” she asked, stepping towards him.

“Stop there,” Adam said. He didn’t mean to sound forceful, but he wanted to reveal himself in his own time.

Belle halted, her face blanching. “Do you live here?” she asked.

“Yes,” Adam responded. “Only me.”

Belle took a risk by stepping one foot closer. “Can you show me your face?”

Adam huffed. He gripped the knob of the door tightly. “I don’t wish to frighten you.”

Belle chanced another step. “I won’t be frightened if you don’t intend to hurt me.” She was right up to the door now, could see through the crack to the beast’s blue eye and hairy snout. She had to look upwards—Papa was right about his size. She was startled by his appearance but kept a calm demeanor. “Do you intend to hurt me?” she whispered.

Adam looked at the half of Belle’s face visible through the crack. They were mere inches apart now. He could smell her hair, an intoxicating scent of spring that was dirt, flower bulbs, raspberries, and fresh grass. If his heart could speak, it would’ve emitted a soft cry like a babe in a deep sleep.

“I won’t hurt you,” the prince said.

He opened the door to reveal his full form. Belle’s eyes widened as she took him in—his long horns, his fangs, his hairy mane and wolf-like haunches. She nearly dropped the basket of goods, but then smiled.

“You’re real,” she said. “The story . . . it’s true.”

Adam blinked a few times, reveling in the woman’s lovely smile. He was terrified to speak, terrified to say or do the wrong thing to make her grin go away. “Is your father well?”

Belle nodded, her face turning serious. “He will be.” She looked down at her basket and raised it towards him. “I made these for you. As a thank-you.”

Adam eyed the cloth-covered basket. He could have danced he was so excited. But one wrong move might terrify the girl and send her running, never to be seen again. He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her through. “Come in,” he urged.

Belle nodded and walked past him. She looked around at the marble banquet hall, the fire down to embers in the hearth and wax dripped onto the gold tablecloth from the candelabras. A pot of something was set before a plate and silverware.

“Did I interrupt?” Belle asked.

The beast looked at her, then at the place setting, then back at her. He dashed across the room and pulled out the chair where the table had been set. “Sit down, please,” he said eagerly—a little too eagerly, he gathered, but Adam didn’t care.

Belle smiled. She walked slowly to the table and sat down, setting the basket by her empty goblet. The beast made himself busy by dipping a ladle into the stew, slopping it into her bowl, then pouring her a glass of champagne, which had flattened after being open all night. Adam sat on the chair opposite of Belle and watched her keenly.

Belle gave a curious glance to the beast and dipped her spoon in the bowl. She took a sip and grimaced. “Erm . . .”

Adam frowned. “You don’t like it? Too much saffron. I knew I added too much saffron—”

“No, no,” Belle exclaimed. “The taste is very good, but . . . it’s cold.”

The beast jumped up from his seat, took the pot with one large paw, and peered inside disapprovingly. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. He looked ready to throw the pot across the room, then help up a hand. “Wait here,” he said. “Please, just . . . give me a moment.”

Belle nodded and he raced out of the room. She couldn’t move even if she wanted. She was dumbfounded, overwhelmed, utterly enchanted that not only was the folktale true, but that she was being served by its protagonist in a grand castle. Belle took this time to look around the room. The paintings on the walls had been covered with black cloth. The fireplace was intricately carved with horned demons and weeping angels. The large window curtains were open, spilling early morning light into the room.

There was a clatter in the next room, a low grumble, then the beast returned with a wood block of sliced baguette, cheese, and grapes. He set it on the table, and before he could move around to his chair, Belle stopped him by placing her hand on his furry paw.

“Wait,” she said. “I don’t know your name.”

Adam froze. She was touching him. Her skin was on his fur. It was warm and tender, not cold and rough like the Enchantress. He hadn’t felt a real woman’s touch in years, and he nearly broke out crying. “Adam,” he said. “My name is Adam.”

Belle removed her hand from him and smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you, _monsieur_. I’m Belle.”

“Belle,” the prince repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. It was delicious. He smiled slowly, then shook his head and moved around the table to his chair. “Please eat,” he said, motioning to the cheese platter.

Belle took a single grape and daintily popped it in her mouth. “I have so many questions,” she said chewing.

“So do I,” Adam admitted.

Belle looked at the basket and nudged it towards him. “Please don’t be shy.”

The beast stuck a single claw into the basket and dragged it towards himself. He raised the cloth slightly and sniffed. It smelled divine. While the Enchantress spoiled him with only the finest foods of the world, he sometimes missed a simple biscuit with jam or blackberry tart. Adam picked up a sweet rolled, sniffed it, and ate it whole.

Belle’s eyes widened.

Adam took another, then another, stuffing the baked goods into his large mouth until his cheeks puffed out. He chewed and swallowed, then tilted the basket up above his mouth and caught the last few crumbs. He licked his paws like a dog, then stopped and finally noticed Belle staring.

Belle put a hand over her mouth and laughed. He may have had the manners of a gentleman, but he ate like a . . . well, like a _beast_.


	6. Everywhere in Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question--is it confusing to use the name Adam when he's in his beast form? Also, I love you all and I'm so, SO humbled by your comments.

After they had eaten, Belle asked for a tour of the beast— _Adam’s_ —castle. He obliged enthusiastically, but as they walked through the dark corridors, he balked at the ugly gargoyle statues and cobwebs. 

“I wish you could see it as it should be,” Adam said. “Everything glittered. It was a triumph of architecture.”

They were in the north wing, the windows facing the snow-covered gardens. Though the sunlight was prominent through the frosted glass, it cast strange shadows on the faces of the gargoyles. Belle noticed that, like the banquet hall, every painting in the corridor was covered with black cloth.

Belle stopped, turned to Adam, and asked, “Is it true you were a prince?”

The beast peered down at her. A flash of something crossed his face—indignance, maybe. Offense. “I _am_ a prince,” he said curtly.

Belle’s eyebrows raised slightly. For how generous and courtly he had been earlier, his voice had a tinge of vanity and pretension. It surprised her.

Adam noticed her expression and softened his voice. “At least, I _was_. Before . . .” He glanced over Belle’s shoulder, eyes lost in a past that seemed lifetimes ago. Adam cleared his throat and looked at the young woman. “Forgive me. I’ve been alone for so long, sometimes I forget my manners.”

Belle nodded and offered an understanding grin. “It’s alright,” she said. She looked around at the long, empty hall. “I can’t imagine the loneliness you must have faced all these years.” Belle looked at the prince. “I would have gone mad.”

Adam stared down at her and swallowed hard. Yes, it had been lonely. And maddening. And frightening. But to have someone stand before him and actually sympathize instead of mock him as the Enchantress did . . . he could have fallen before Belle’s feet and praised her as a goddess.

The prince blinked and turned away. “Do you like books?” he asked, continuing down the hall.

Belle follow, grinning widely. “More than anything,” she admitted.

Adam smiled, forging ahead down a flight of stairs and through a pair of double doors. He held one open for Belle, and as she stepped through, her face lit up in amazement.

Books covered the enormous library from floor to ceiling. There were plush chairs and couches for lounging, a red marbled fireplace, and at least three desks littered with stacks and stacks of volumes. She laughed, spinning around to view as much of the space as possible. It was like a dream.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.

Adam watched her. He felt ashamed for snapping at her earlier, his pride and vanity blinding him to the innocence of this beautiful woman. She was truly exquisite. Adam watched her bright eyes dance around the room, followed the curve of her neck down to her back and legs. He liked the way her hair fell at the nape of her neck, the way she touched her lips in wonder at the library.

A sigh escaped the beast’s mouth, and his heart twisted like a hot coil.

Belle looked at the prince. “Have you read them all?” she asked.

Adam chuckled. “Most of them. Lord knows I’ve had time to spare.”

Belle didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. She gave him a sympathetic smile, instead. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

The beast grinned widely. “Do you have a few hours?”

***

When the prince asked if Belle had hours to spare, she thought he had been joking. It was true that he was only half serious, but as the day wore on and Belle’s pile of books stacked up on the floor by the couch she sat on, Adam forgot for a while that he was cursed at all. Rather, he was under a different kind of enchantment, sitting on a chair by Belle’s couch and listening to her read her favorite passages from Shakespeare, Molière, and Rousseau.

Every so often, Adam stopped listening to the words Belle was reciting. He was too busy memorizing the curve of her lips, counting the lashes on her eyes, and struggling to not reach out and feel the smooth skin of her cheeks.

“Do you believe that?” Belle asked.

Adam jumped, startled out of his daydream. He blinked a few times and furrowed his brows at Belle. “Sorry, what?”

Belle held up the leather-bound book she was reading from. “Rousseau. That ‘man is born free and everywhere he is in chains.’?”

The beast pursed his lips and grumbled, “Most men don’t know what real freedom is.”

Belle considered this, then closed the book and said, “I used to think I was trapped,” she said. “Trapped in my small village, in my role as a woman . . .” She smiled fondly. “But I always had my books. They’ll always be an escape for me.”

Adam grinned. “For me, as well.”

Silence seeped in as they stared at one another. Belle felt a strange fluttering in her chest, as though a bird that had been caged was finally released. Her cheeks reddened and she giggled. She glanced out the window and saw the sun dangling in the west.

Belle stood and said, “I ought to be going.”

Adam shot up from his chair. “Right now?”

“I’m sure my father is wondering where I am.” She hesitated, reading the disappointed look in the prince’s china blue eyes. “Will you walk me to the door?”

The beast smiled weakly and nodded. He escorted her out of the library and through the castle to the main hall. At the door, Belle paused and turned to him. “Adam?”

He stopped, head spinning. It was the first time she had used his name. The sound of it coming from her mouth was like an aria.

Belle continued, “Are you really here forever unless . . . unless you—”

“Marry the Enchantress,” he finished. “Yes.”

“But you don’t love her.” Belle said. It wasn’t a question, but a fact with indisputable evidence.

The prince shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I’ll never love her.”

Belle searched his face, eyes digging for an answer that hadn’t even been posed yet. She reached out and touched his large, furry arm. “Well then,” she said, “we’ll have to work very hard to find a way to break the curse.”

When Belle touched him, Adam’s first instinct was to recoil. For years, the Enchantress was the only one who touched him, and for years, it was like death clawing his skin. But Belle’s hand was so soft, so gentle, so unafraid and honest, it took everything Adam had not to sweep her into his arms.

He smiled unsteadily. “Will you . . . will I ever see you again?”

Belle grinned and nodded. “I’ll come back in a few days when my father is feeling well. He’ll want to see you again, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” Adam chuckled. “Of course—you’re both welcome any time.”

“Good,” Belle chuckled.

Another silence wedged itself between them. Belle focused on the beast— _Adam’s_ —eyes. Throughout the day, she had been too focused on his prominent beastly features. Now, however, with a forest about to divide them, she marveled at how blue his eyes were. Belle read a quote once from Cicero, “The face is a picture of the mind as the eyes are its interpreter.” Though she couldn’t see the prince’s true form, she saw that his eyes held every human impulse, thought, and desire. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Belle broke the silence by laughing again, then opened the door.

“Wait,” Adam said, stopping her.

Belle looked at him and waited, a rush of cold air from outside stinging her face. Adam hesitated, the words stuck on his tongue.

“You won’t tell anyone about me, will you?” he asked.

Belle shook her head. “I promise. My father and I will keep your secret.”

Satisfied and grateful, the beast nodded.

Belle walked through the door, gave him a parting smile, and left. Adam watched her in the doorway as she climbed aboard Philippe and rode off. He watched her until he could no longer see her through the trees.

***

When Belle arrived home, Pére Robert met her outside the cottage just as she was unsaddling Philippe. “Welcome home,” the priest said. He looked over his shoulder at the bustling village streets. “Is the doctor with you?”

“The what?” Belle stopped as she tied Philippe up, then nodded. “Oh, yes. Um . . .” She had nearly forgotten her white lie about fetching the doctor from Bonne Terre. “He was out,” she said finally. “In another village. I-I wanted to return before it got dark.”

Pére Robert nodded. “Just as well,” he said, “your father has improved greatly.”

Belle’s stomach clenched as she walked up the front stoop with the priest. “Did he say anything . . . odd?”

Pére Robert shook his head. “Not particularly. Though he did ask me how god my Latin was.”

Belle chuckled and turned to the priest before opening the front door. “Thank you for watching over him,” she said.

The priest gave a slight bow. “It was my pleasure. Take care of your father, _mademoiselle_.”

“I shall,” Belle said. She watched him leave, waiting a little for him to get further down the street, then burst into the cottage in a whirl of excitement. “Papa!” she called.

Belle went to her father’s room, where he was sitting up in bed with a sketchpad and charcoal in his lap. “Belle!” he exclaimed, reaching out for her.

She knelt by his bedside and let him cradle her head in his hands. He looked much better since yesterday, full of color and life. The bandage and been removed to reveal a tiny cut along his hairline.

“Papa, you were right,” Belle said, nearly whispering. “The castle. The beast. Everything you said—it’s true.”

“Of course it’s true,” Maurice cried. “Have I ever lied to you, darling?”

Belle laughed and kissed his palms. “It was incredible,” she gushed. “He gave me food and showed me his library—”

“The others won’t know what to make of it!”

Belle frowned and sat on the edge of her father’s bed. “What others?” she asked.

“The town,” Maurice explained. He noted the look on Belle’s face and added, “We must tell people, Belle. They’ll want to—”

“We can’t!” Belle exclaimed.

“He’s all alone, though.”

“Papa, what do you think will happen when people realize that a fairy tale they used to scare their children with was true? They won’t understand!”

Maurice considered this. He sighed. “Belle, I don’t—”

“Papa, we can’t tell anyone about the beast,” Belle said. “I made him a promise.”

Maurice stared at his daughter. He saw a glimmer of his late wife in Belle just then, her determination and spirit and will to do the right thing. He smiled fondly and nodded. “Alright,” Maurice said. “What do we do, then?”

Belle took her father’s hand. She fixed her eyes on her father with purpose and conviction.  “We find a way to break the curse.”


	7. Threats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this chapter longer, but I had a busy day at now. Now that it's the weekend, I can write to my heart's content! Thanks again to all of my readers and commentators.

The days after Belle’s departure where the longest of Adam’s life.

Longer than the first three days—hell, the first three years—of his curse.

Longer than the nights when the Enchantress would pay him a visit and torment him with her hands and mouth and spiteful laughter.

Longer, still, then the prospect of forever.

Every morning at dawn, the moment he transformed back into a beast, he waited by the window in the library that overlooked the entrance of his castle. Any bird or rodent or tuft of heavy snow falling from a branch in the distance ignited hope in his heart that he would see Belle and her father. Disappointment followed just as quickly.

The third night after Belle left, Adam drew a bath for himself to soak his fatigued bones. He sat in the large copper tub by the fire in his room, rubbing the stubble on his chin. The prince slicked his hair back and rubbed his shoulders, the transformation having taken a toll on his body over the years. It was hard to sleep in his human form—harder to do nearly anything that involved lifting or pushing.

Adam leaned back in the tub and grinned slowly, his mind wandering to Belle. He could still hear the sweet lilt of her voice reading to him. He closed his eyes and pictured her brown hair, the freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks

When Belle had been in his library, plucking books from the shelves and setting them on the floor, Adam had caught of glimpse of her cleavage. From what he could tell, her breasts were modest, but perky. The prince swallowed hard, his loins stirring. He tried to push the image out of his mind. Leering at young women was something his former self did, and he had no intention of treating Belle like a pretty object to be gawked at.

Still, at least by night, he was only human.

Adam began to dip his hand below the water to quell the ache in his member, when a voice startled him.

“I hope you’re not making yourself pretty just for little old me.”

Adam’s eyes snapped open and he jerked his hand out of the water. He turned to the voice and saw the Enchantress sitting on the edge of his bed, smirking. He deflated instantly and sat back, sighing.

The Enchantress giggled. She wore a skintight black dress adorned with pearls, her long blonde locks done up in intricate curls on her head. She wore a gold diadem with a single ruby dangling between her eyes.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the Enchantress said. “I was enjoying the show.”

“Leave me alone,” Adam grumbled, turning his head away from her.

The Enchantress pouted, then said. “You look dreadful. When did you last shave?”

“What does it matter?” the prince said.

The Enchantress stood from the bed, gliding towards the tub with a knowing grin. “Let me help you,” she said, kneeling at his head. With the flick of a wrist, she procured a straight edge razor. She wrapped her free hand around Adam’s neck and tilted his head back.

Adam held his breath as he felt the cool steel of the blade on his skin. She glided it upwards, his stubble making a maddening sound as it was shaved off.

The Enchantress took her time, pausing in precarious places and giggling when he flinched. “I personally don’t mind a bit of scruff,” she said. “But some find it . . . off-putting.” She flicked the razor up and off his skin, holding it in her hand by his face like a butcher sizing up portions. “I know your secret,” she whispered.

Adam’s whole body tensed. His eyes danced along the dark windows across from him. The Enchantress placed the blade on his neck again, trapping him.

“I know you’ve had visitors,” she continued.

Adam blinked rapidly, his chest heaving with labored breaths. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

The Enchantress laughed. “You can’t lie to your mistress, darling. The girl is very pretty. What’s her name?”

Adam managed to slip away from the blade and turned to face the witch. His eyes were wild with fear and anger. “Don’t talk about her,” he warned.

The Enchantress shrugged and smiled. “She’s no threat to me.”

Adam noticed a flash of darkness cross the woman’s face. “But you are threatened,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

The Enchantress’s smile twitched. Her eyes became hard and cold. Her hand shook as she held the straight razor. “I hold all the power here, Your Highness. There’s only one way to stop the curse.”

“Two ways,” Adam said. “I could kill you.”

“Yes, and how did that play out last time?”

Adam lowered his eyes. The first night the witch came to him after the curse, he brandished his father’s sword at her and tried to stab her. Her magic, of course, was too strong, and she knocked the sword out of his hand with a single wave of her fingers. Defenseless, the Enchantress held Adam against the wall by his throat, easily picking him up as though he were a doll.

“Let me show you what happens to naughty boys who don’t behave,” she had said.

The Enchantress snapped her fingers and Adam had found himself submerged under dark, freezing water. He could still remember it—the biting cold, the helpless flailing—and when his head finally found the surface, he discovered he was in the frozen lake by his castle. Adam grasped for the ice to pull himself up but slipped back in. He yelled, kicked, pleaded, and just when he thought he would fall back under to the darkness, he was transported to his bedroom, soaking wet and shivering on the floor.

The Enchantress was sneering down at him. “That’s what happens,” she had said.

Adam blinked a few times, the memory dissolving. He was grateful now for his warm bath and roaring fire. The Enchantress put her finger under his chin and guided him to face her. “I can’t help how powerful I am,” she said in a low tone. “Does this girl know how powerful I am?”

Adam jerked from her grip and stood. He stepped out of the tub, gathered his robe, and threw it on.

The witch stood, watching him. “You’re so moody,” she said. “One little veil of a threat, and you go off in a tizzy.”

Adam opened his wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes. He found what he was looking for and gripped it tightly, turning to the witch with a scowl.

The Enchantress saw the flintlock pistol in his hand and laughed. “Adam, please. You know I can’t die by mortal weapons.”

Adam nodded. “You can’t. But I can.”

The prince raised the pistol to his temple. The Enchantress gasped and held up a hand. Before she could speak, Adam cocked the gun.

“The flint is already loaded,” he said. “If you try to use your magic to disarm me, it might go off.”

The Enchantress lowered her hand. She smiled nervously. “You won’t do it,” she said. “Otherwise, you would have done it years ago.”

“I haven’t had anything to protect until now,” Adam said. He stared at the woman resolutely, his hand unwavering. “If you hurt her or her father, you’ll lose me forever. The game will be over.”

The Enchantress frowned. Her beautiful face was hard as stone, eyes digging into the prince. Adam knew that the phrase “if looks could kill” was just a saying, but in this instance, he worried that she could very well strike him dead with just her eyes.

“Fine,” she said coolly. “I’ll leave your little guests alone.” She sauntered towards him. “But that doesn’t change where we stand. You’re still mine. And the day will come when you finally accept that.”

Adam stared back at her, the flintlock still aimed at his head. The Enchantress touched his cheek and leaned in to plant a featherlight kiss on his lips. She looked down his robe at his naked body.

“Put some clothes on,” the Enchantress whispered. “You’ll catch a cold.” She turned, walked a few paces, then vanished in a puff of gold smoke.

When she was gone, Adam lowered the gun from his head with a trembling hand. He breathed for what felt like the first time since the Enchantress had arrived. Adam un-cocked the gun, took the flint out, and put it back in his wardrobe. He sat on his bed, mind reeling.

The old him would never have taken a bullet for people he barely knew. In fact, the old him expected others to lay down their lives, despite how cruel and selfish he was. Years of being alone with his thoughts made Adam realize how foolish he had been.

The prince’s thoughts wandered back to Belle. Her sweet smile. Her gentle touch. He closed his eyes and prayed she and her father were worth it.


	8. Human Forms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some smut in this chapter, so be forewarned!

Belle and her father arrived the next day. Adam wasn’t even looking for them—rather, he was sulking in his room, curled up in the corner in his beast form and stroking the fur on his arms. Perhaps Belle and her father would never return. Perhaps his vow to protect them by taking his own life was in vain. Perhaps they had completely forgotten about him.

Adam heard voices from outside his window that faced the front entrance. He stood and peered out, then grinned when he saw two figures riding a horse towards the castle.

The prince put on his cloak, smoothed the fur around his face, and raced downstairs. He yanked the door open so hard, it nearly broke. Belle and her father were already on the other side. They jumped back as the door flew open.

“Hello,” Adam said, panting. “I’m so glad you came back.”

Belle looked at her father and they grinned at one another. They each held a basket covered in cheesecloth. “We’re happy to see you again,” Belle said.

Amazingly, Adam’s smile grew even wider. He opened the door wider and stepped inside to let them through. “How are you feeling, Maurice?” he asked.

“Well enough,” the old man said. “A few dizzy spells here and there.”

Once they were inside, Adam closed the door and looked at Belle. “Good morning,” he said.

She smiled. “Good morning, _monsieur_.”

They grinned at one another. Belle stared into his eyes, those beautiful blue pools of clarity, and Adam focused on her lips. He has nearly forgotten how soft they looked.

Maurice cleared his throat and nudged his daughter. Belle broke her gaze from the prince and looked at her father. “Oh, yes . . .” she uncovered her basket. “We brought you some things.”

Adam looked at Maurice, then back at Belle. “For me?”

Belle rummaged through the basket. “Parsnips, carrots, some cabbage heads—”

“Do you like chocolate?” Maurice asked. “I have a fine box from Paris that I’ve been saving for a few years now.”

Adam smiled, his heart filling. He was no stranger to fine foods, especially chocolate, but the fact that Belle and her father were so generous in giving him what few prized things they had, he almost couldn’t bear it.

“Why don’t you take chocolates to the library,” the prince said. “I’ll put the vegetables in the kitchen.” He reached for Belle’s basket, then paused when their hands touched.

Belle leaned in and whispered with a smile, “Papa has another surprise for you.”

Adam held his breath. Their faces were so close. He could smell tea on her breath and lavender oil dabbed on her neck. He felt himself growing faint, then regained his composure as Belle moved away. She gave him the basket and winked.

Lord help him, Adam could have kissed her right then and there.

***

As the morning went on, they set up an impromptu picnic on the floor of the library. The beast gathered a blanket from his room and laid it out, peppering the space with pillows and cushions. Belle gathered her favorite books and stacked them beside her corner of the blanket, settling in for a long read as though she had been a resident of the castle for years.

Maurice broke out the chocolate and showed Adam his surprise—an intricate gold music box he had crafted a few months ago. The prince marveled at its gears and trappings and meticulous details.

“Extraordinary,” he said.

Maurice beamed proudly and sat back against a pillow on the floor. “Belle is quite the engineer, as well,” he bragged.

Belle looked up from her book, cheeks reddening. She laughed and admitted, “I dabble. But Papa is far more patient with his mechanics than I am.”

Adam chuckled. “A woman who reads _and_ builds things? You’re quite a unique person.”

“The villagers think I’m odd,” she said, delving back into her book.

The beast looked at Maurice. “Your villagers are idiots.”

Maurice snorted a laugh and popped a chocolate in his mouth. “You’re preaching to a converted man,” he said. “There’s one gentleman in particular—I would even call him a gentleman, to be honest—”

“Papa don’t,” Belle said, looking at him. She set her book down in her lap.

“This man,” Maurice continued, “has been hunting Belle like a wolf."

“Papa—”

“He simply won’t take no for an answer,” Maurice said, ignoring his daughter. “I don’t understand how someone can be so single-minded as to—”

“Papa!” Belle yelled.

Her father stopped. The men looked at her finally. Belle’s face had blanched and she clutched the book in her lap with white knuckles. She was thinking of the last time she talked to Gaston, how he had bragged about the “tantalizing” taste of flesh that had been hunted and cornered. The less Belle thought about him, the more she could convince herself his animosity was just overblown. But Maurice’s words brought all of her worry bubbling back to the surface.

“Are you alright?” Adam asked.

Belle’s eyes traveled slowly to the beast. She nodded.

Maurice pursed his lips, guilt-ridden at making his daughter frown. He said to the beast, “My daughter deserves only the best, should she choose to get married.”

Belle’s face softened and she dove back into her book.

“Don’t you agree?” Maurice asked Adam. “A woman like Belle deserves . . .”

“A prince,” Adam said. He was gazing at Belle, studying the expression on her face. She looked up at him sheepishly. Adam offered her a small grin and she blushed, fighting a losing battle to a smile of her own.

***

The prince made his guests lunch with the groceries they brought him. When he entered the banquet hall with his tray of food, Belle and her father applauded. They had claimed a corner of the long table and ate with gold-lined glassware and fine china plates. There was laughter. There were stories that made Belle blush and Maurice shake his head in amazement.

They didn’t talk about the curse. They didn’t talk about Adam’s horns or fangs or thick brown fur. They debated politics and made weather predictions and joked about powdered wigs.

It was the most human Adam had ever felt in his life.

After lunch, Maurice stayed in the library to read while Belle and Adam took a refreshing stroll through the backyard gardens. They fed Philippe and marveled at the icy wonderland around them. The sun was high in the sky, tufts of cloud as soft as cotton dancing above them.

“Thank you for being so hospitable,” Belle said. She lowered the cowl of her cloak to better see the beast.

He nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m grateful for the company. Your father is a very amusing man.”

Belle chuckled. They walked over a small stone bridge and stopped at the apex. They looked out across the frozen lake, the birds their only companion to their silence. Finally, Adam cleared his throat and said delicately, “This man your father was talking about . . .”

Belle looked down at her hands. “Gaston,” she said bitterly. “He’s an absolute scoundrel. He thinks ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and ‘leave me alone’ is code for ‘try harder.’”

Adam grunted. Anger and jealousy flared within him, imagining this man pestering Belle. “I could have his face mauled off,” he said flippantly. “It would be very easy.”

Belle laughed. “That would certainly hinder him. His looks are the only reason most people forgive his antics.”

The beast looked off towards the lake. “So he’s . . . handsome?”

Belle turned her eyes to Adam. “Looks aren’t everything.”

The prince considered this. She may have sounded earnest, but Belle had only seen him as the beast. She could never truly consider someone like him as anything more than a friend, not with a face as revolting as his during the daytime.

“I wish you could see me as I really am,” he sighed.

Belle tiled her head, looking at him curiously. “I do see you,” she said. “Your kindness and gentleness . . . the way you don’t judge me for my interests.”

Adam finally looked at her. “You _must_ be curious,” he said.

Belle grinned slowly, then nodded. “Yes, I can’t help but be a little curious.”

The beast chuckled. He turned and walked on down the bridge, Belle following closely. “There are some similarities between my human form and my beast form.”

“Like what?” Belle asked. “Are you really seven feet tall?”

Adam laughed. “Hardly. Maybe five or so inches taller than you.”

Belle looked at the ground as they walked, grinning. “Are your eyes really blue?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Adam said. “And I do have fur as a human, but only on my chest.”

Belle blushed. She was beginning to form a picture in her mind. It was blurry and abstract, more shapes than actual parts, and when she pictured his chest, her breath caught in her throat. She knew the general anatomy of most men, had read in great detail about their . . . _attributes_ , but she never considered them as real people she could touch and smell and even taste—

“I’m sorry,” Adam said.

Belle blinked at looked at him. “Hm?”

“I was too candid just then.”

Belle laughed awkwardly and shook her head. “No, no, I don’t—you didn’t—” She cleared her throat and expelled a clumsy breath. “Uh, I’m cold, actually. Can we go back inside?”

“Of course,” Adam said. They walked on, and as they neared the castle, the beast offered his arm, furry arm to Belle. For warmth. For comfort. To feel her touch one last time before she left.

Belle took it and huddled close to him. For warmth. For comfort. To prolong that feeling of safety and affection which blossomed in her heart like a rose.

***

That night, Belle slipped effortlessly into sleep, thinking about the beast and the wonderful day they had shared together. It was all Maurice had talked about when they were back home in the comfort of their cottage. The two had promised to visit Adam as often as they could, but Belle knew she would be coming by far more often than her father. The allure of books and fine food and a pair of stunning blue eyes was too much to keep her away.

That night, Belle dreamt of a man without a face. She rarely remembered her dreams upon waking, but this one would settle into her memory for weeks to come. The man in her dream was blurry, like an abstract painting made with warm colors and swift brush strokes. He was holding her face in his hands, thumb brushing just under her eye. He whispered something, but she couldn’t hear it. Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, tongue dancing between her teeth, hands grasping her buttocks as he lifted her up and carried her away.

The faceless man set her down somewhere soft. All around them was a swirling, honey colored mist. Belle wrapped her arms around his neck as they kissed, urging him closer, deeper, harder. The man whispered something again.

“I can’t hear you,” Belle said as he nuzzled her neck.

The man stepped away from her, and though he was still blurry, she saw that he was completely naked, his member standing up stiffly. She reached for him and he was on her mouth again, kissing deeply. It wasn’t until he cupped her breast that Belle realize she was naked, as well.

She could feel his cock grinding against her thigh as easily as she felt a warm breeze when she was awake. Belle moaned. She bucked her hips and the man held them at bay with a hand. He trailed his lips down her neck, kissing her collar bone, then her breasts, then all the way down to her wet, inviting opening.

Before the faceless man could lower his mouth to her privates, Belle jerked awake. She was panting, sweat beading along her hairline. Her womanhood throbbed and ached with desire. Belle looked around her room, weak moonlight peeking through the curtains.

She sighed deeply. Belle hadn’t had a dream like that since first hitting puberty, and even then, they didn’t feel so supremely real. She swallowed the dryness in her throat, struggling to figure out what the faceless man might’ve looked like. Her eyes fluttered to a close. She could still feel his mouth on hers, his hands cupping her bottom, his throbbing member rubbing against her.

With her eyes still closed, Belle reached under the blankets and found that familiar spot between her legs that gave her pleasure when she touched it just right. She rubbed slowly with her middle and pointer fingers, nightgown hitched up to her waist. Belle thought of the faceless man’s cock, how satisfying it would be to have it inside of her, filling her, squelching the fire that blazed deep within.

She thought of what Adam had said earlier that day, how his chest was hairy in his human form, how he was a few inches taller than her, how his eyes were still as blue as the sky. Belle thought about running her fingers along the hair on his human form, chest and otherwise. She rubbed faster, her toes curling. Then, strangely, the thing that sent her over the edge was a brief, unexpected image of Adam in his beast form, throwing her against a bookshelf and dragging one of his long claws against her exposed breast.

Belle came, emitting a soft moan, and slowed the movement of her fingers as her orgasm washed over her. She opened her eyes and sighed, her clit throbbing against her fingers. She fell asleep again almost instantly, floating into a realm of comforting darkness.

She slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.


	9. The Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a name for the Enchantress, but I feel like I've waited too long to introduce it and now I'm embarrassed. -_-

The next morning, Maurice found himself saddled with a project from the dressmaker’s wife. She had received a clock from her German relatives, but it had been broken in transport. The dressmaker’s wife offered ten livres for it to be working by the end of the day, and as much as Maurice wanted to visit the prince, he couldn’t pass up the wages.

“You go,” he said to Belle. “Take the wagon and bring back some books from his library. Maybe we’ll find something to help break the curse.”

“You’re sure?” Belle asked. “If you need help with the clock, I can—”

“I was tinkering years before you were born, my dear,” Maurice said, smiling. “I’ll manage for a day.”

Belle rolled her eyes and smiled. She would have stayed if he asked, but Belle was more than glad to make the trek to the beast’s castle by herself. She hated picturing him by the window, waiting for company with no way of knowing whether they were able.

After breakfast, Belle hitched Philippe up to the wagon, another basket packed with her father’s paint set in her arm. Just as Belle was ready to mount the horse, a familiar voice boomed from down the street.

“Good morning, Belle!” Gaston called.

Belle scrunched her eyes shut and groaned. She pretended she didn’t hear him and climbed aboard Philippe.

“Whoa, there!” Gaston cried, grabbing the horse’s bridle. “You’re in a terrible hurry.”

“Yes, I am,” Belle said, looking down at the man from her perch. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

Gaston stepped before the horse again and asked, “Where might you be going so early in the day?”

Belle pursed her lips. Of course, she couldn’t tell him the truth, but if she denied in him answer, it would surely make the man more curious. “Bon Terre,” she lied. “I have business there.”

Gaston snorted. “What business could a  _woman_  have there—traveling alone, no less?”

“I’m not obligated to answer you, Gaston.”

Gaston smiled arrogantly. “I was curious, but now I’m intrigued.”

Belle made an exasperated sigh. She looked ahead at the bustling village streets and saw a mother with a crying babe. Belle looked back at Gaston and said, “I—I’m training to be a midwife.” She suddenly grinned and asked, “Have you ever seen a babe crowning? It stretches the woman’s skin, sometimes tearing—”

“Ugh!” Gaston released Philippe’s bridle and stepped aside. “You’re a vulgar woman.”

Belle raised a brow and shrugged. “You asked.” She clicked her tongue and urged Philippe forwards with the reins. She giggled to herself and shook her head as Gaston watched her trot off, his ears red.

***

Though Belle had eaten before arriving, she couldn’t deny the plate of macaroons and sweet plums Adam had prepared for her. The prince wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was glad to have Belle to himself today. He enjoyed Maurice as a guest, but in the man’s presence, it was hard to be adoring to Belle.

They chatted as they ate. Belle asked the prince how he learned to cook, surprised he was self-taught, and asked him to teach her a few things in the kitchen. He agreed with the biggest of smiles.

After their mid-morning spread, Belle went directly to the library and began pulling books from the shelves as if she owned the place. It took her some time to find the ones she was looking for, as many of the books were shelved in the wrong places.

When Belle had found a stack of twelve useful books, she dropped them on a desk with a loud  _thud_. Adam read the spines and looked at her curiously. Belle noticed his confusion and said, “Pagan rituals, Irish folktales, enchantments of the Orient—one of these has to have the cure for your curse.”

The beast grumbled and walked around the desk to the fireplace. “I’ve told you, there’s no way to break the curse unless I marry the Enchantress.”

Belle paused, his disappointment wrenching her heart. “There’s a loophole for everything,” she assured. “And I’m going to find it. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Adam turned and looked at her. “Why are you so eager to help me?”

Belle began flipping through one of the books and asked, “What do you mean?”

The prince shrugged and paced along the rug. “I was the worst version of myself before the curse. I was an arrogant, pompous nightmare.” He frowned, recalling his shameful antics of snapping at his staff, throwing food against the wall in a fit of disgust, and laughing when a butler tripped or stammered. “Perhaps I deserve to live like this forever,” Adam murmured.

Belle closed the book and moved towards him. She put a comforting hand on his bushy arm and said, “The man you described is not the man I know. You’ve changed for the better. If anything good came from this curse, it’s that you were given time to see the error of your ways.”

The beast slowly looked over at Belle. He was warmed head to toe from her touch. “The only good thing that came of this curse was meeting you,” he said.

Belle’s lips parted slightly, stunned by Adam’s confession.

Adam’s heart raced and he hurried to backpedal. “And—and your father, of course,” he said, gently pulling his arm away from Belle. “Meeting  _anyone_  after all this time has—has been . . .”

Belle grinned as the beast trailed off. She giggled and said, “Let’s start with Perrault’s tales and work our way back.”

***

The castle was quiet for some time, Belle and the beast reading their separate tomes of fables well after lunchtime. Adam couldn’t concentrate. Every other word, he peeked up from his book to see Belle. She only caught him a few times, smiling and blushing, then returned to scribbling notes and folding page ears.

“What’s the Enchantress like?” Belle asked suddenly.

It was nearly one o’clock. The beast’s stomach rumbled but he didn’t want to disturb Belle’s research. When she asked about the Enchantress, his heart jumped into his throat and he nearly dropped his book.

“Why?” Adam asked.

Belle shrugged. “If we’re going to break the curse, I should know a little more about her.”

The prince turned his head away from Belle. He closed his book and stood, walking to the tall windows where snow was falling softly outside. “She’s a cruel witch,” he said bitterly. “Manipulative. Cold.”

Belle stood and met Adam at the window. She imagined an old, haggard woman with warts and brittle nails. “Is she . . . pretty?” Belle asked softly.

The beast glanced down at her, then back out the window. “Yes, I suppose. But her malice makes her ugly. And the way she touches me, it’s like—” Adam caught Belle’s eye again. She was wincing, pained by the picture he was giving her. “It’s not love,” the beast concluded. “It’s obsession. A dangerous one, at that.”

Belle looked down. She was worried about probing further, worried it would upset the prince and thrust him into a spiral of depression and resentment. But to help break the curse, Belle needed all the facts. A machine never ran on only half its parts.

“What happened the night she cursed you?” Belle asked.

Adam sighed deeply, then looked down at Belle. “I was cruel to her, and it only made her want me more.”

The beast closed his eyes, remembering the night as though it were yesterday. He had thrown a ball for his twenty-fifth birthday, inviting only the loveliest and richest women in his kingdom to choose as a bride. Adam remembered the bright candlelight and strings of thick garland hanging from the chandeliers. He could still smell the wine and caviar, the perfume of the  _debutantes_  and the white powder dabbed on his face.

Adam shuddered, remembering how he had snapped his fingers and ordered everyone around. He remembered laughing at any woman who missed a step during the dance. He drank and ate and slurred and even kissed a few lucky women deeply on the mouth, but when the clock struck nine, a new person entered the room.

While the rest of the  _debutantes_ wore white, this woman wore crimson red, her hair falling down her back like a flaxen waterfall. She denied a dance with the other men, drinking the prince’s champagne and staying in the corner, watching the ball.

Adam had seen her right away but chose to ignore her. He thought it would make her want him more, turn her into a simpering fool like the rest of the girls. He loved watching them break down. But this woman merely smiled and drank from her crystal flute.

Finally, the prince broke away from his dance partner and met the woman in a corner, away from the food and drinks and music.

“Are you too proud to bow to your prince?” he had asked, leaning in seductively to trap her.

The woman laughed and said, “You’re not my prince. But I’ll bow to you another way . . .”

The blonde beauty had lowered herself slowly to her knees, hands sliding down the prince’s chest and stomach and all the way to his loins. He grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. He smiled and asked with a laugh, “Don’t you have any pride, _mademoiselle_?”

She giggled. “None whatsoever.”

He should have pushed her away in this moment. He should have gone back to the party, should have asked her to leave for her shamelessness.

Instead, Adam grinned wickedly, led the woman out to the hall, and pushed her against a pillar, kissing her breathlessly. A few butlers and maids were milling about, but the prince didn’t care. They knew better than to question the decency of their master.

Adam’s mouth never left the woman’s lips, save to take a breath. She turned her head away and he kissed and sucked along her neck, his makeup smearing on her skin. With a growl, he grabbed the woman by her buttocks and raised her up against the pillar. He was hard, grinding himself against her rhythmically.

The blonde stranger moaned and gasped and bucked her hips towards him. “Say you’ll be mine,” she whispered. “Say it.”

Adam made no response but to grab her hair and crash his mouth against hers once more. There was a sound behind him, the gasp of a young man.

The prince turned his head violently towards the noise and saw one of his staff—the gardener, perhaps—gawking at the display of passion. Adam dropped the woman to her feet and turned to the man. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Get out! Go away!” Adam waved him off and the man went scurrying.

When the prince turned back to the temptress, she had the top of her dress untied, her breasts spilling out voraciously. She clutched one hand to her left breast, holding a rose against it, the thorns tearing into her flesh and making her bleed.

Adam gasped. The rose had a strange golden tint around it, like smoke from a priest’s thurible. Blood was gushing from the woman’s breast, far too much from a few simple thorns.

“Take it,” the strange woman said. “Take my heart. It’s yours.”

“Wh-what’s happening?” Adam stammered. “How are you—”

The bleeding woman reached out and clamped her other hand over Adam’s neck. “You chose me!” she yelled, tears springing in her eyes. “You chose me out of them all!”

“Let me go!” Adam said, pushing her away.

She fell back against the pillar. The hand that covered her left breast was drenched in blood. “ _You love me, I know it_!” she screamed.

“Guards!” Adam yelled.

“You’re a monster,” she hissed. “A beast. And you’ll remain one forever until you choose me again.”

Adam turned and ran back into the ballroom. The music was still playing. The women were still dancing. The lights, the colors, the smells—it was all the same. Then, a blood-curdling scream sounded from the hallway. Adam whipped around and the witch was sauntering into the room, hunched over as she held the glowing rose against her chest. She extended her free hand and pointed directly at the prince as the guests stopped and stared.

“ _Beast by day, but man must hide—forever cursed, till I’m your bride_!”

There was a deafening silence—no music or voices or crickets chirping from the open windows. Then, everyone in the room save for Adam and the witch dropped to the floor. There was a flash of light and the castle residents vanished.

Adam fell to his knees, crying out and burying his face in his hands. The witched approached him slowly and bent to meet his eye line. She took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her.

“I know what you really are,” she whispered. “And I’m the only one who will ever love you for it.” She blew a cool breath on his face. “Sleep.”

Adam fell into darkness. When he awoke, it was daytime. When he awoke, he was a monster.

***

The beast closed his eyes as he finished his tale. He couldn’t bear to see the disgusted look on Belle’s face. What woman could ever sympathize with his plight? He had brought it on himself, deserved every lonely day and restless night. It was his penance.

“You’re crying,” Belle whispered.

Adam opened his eyes and looked down at Belle. She was welling up with tears of her own, chin trembling as she struggled to keep poised.

The prince touched the wetness under his right eye and studied the glistening tear on his claw. “I hadn’t noticed,” he mumbled.

Suddenly, Belle’s arms were around him, hugging his waist as she buried her head in the fur of his chest. Adam stiffened, alarmed by her action. He hasn’t been hugged—truly, unselfishly hugged since he was a child. Since his mother was still alive.

“I’m so sorry,” Belle whispered. “You don’t deserve this. No one does.”

The beast’s muscles softened and he carefully wrapped his large arms around Belle, sinking into the hug. He closed his eyes once more, pretending he was in his human form, pretending she was his. Adam could smell leaves and earth in Belle’s hair and he grew dizzy. He wanted to hold her tighter, to cradle her against him and watch the sun go down. It was already near the western sky. Sunset was only two hours away.

“Can I stay a little longer?” Belle asked.

Adam place a hand over Belle’s head, gently stroking her hair. “Stay forever.”


	10. Trial and Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to be longer, but I had to find a stopping point, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to post anything at all today. Please enjoy! Your comments are making em so incredibly happy!

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Maurice yelled. He yanked on a bramble clutching the wall of the large stone gazebo at the front of the beast’s castle.

“We’re removing the roses from the garden,” Belle explained. “It might help lift the curse.”

It was the next day, a few hours before lunchtime, and Belle had gotten the idea to eradicate all roses from the castle after hearing Adam’s story the day before. “We never had roses until the cruse fell,” he had explained to her.

There had to be some kind of connection. The Enchantress tried to give the prince a rose from her chest—an enchanted rose, no doubt—and now, even years later, the barren garden was full of them. They started as soon as they arrived at the castle that morning. Belle had brought her gardening gloves and the prince offered a pair of chainmail gauntlets to Maurice for protection.

As Belle tugged on a vine, careful to avoid the razor-sharp thorns, she glanced at Adam as he loaded a bushel into a wooden cart. “Don’t the thorns hurt?” she asked.

The beast held up a paw. “I have thick pads,” he said.

“You’re sure?” Belle asked. She abandoned her vine and approached him, taking one of his paws and examining it. She noticed small scratches on his palm that were painted lightly with blood. “ _Adam_.” Belle gave him a disapproving look.

“What?” he said. “We’re almost done, anyway.”

Belle rolled her eyes and went back to work. When the roses were all loaded in the cart, they wheeled it inside the castle to the library where a fire was roaring in the hearth. They chucked the flowers in, vines and all, watching them wither and pop and curl.

The trio waited.

After a few moments, Belle turned to the beast and said, “Do you feel any different?”

He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m still a beast, aren’t I?”

Maurice sighed loudly and flounced onto a plush chair. “It was a valiant effort, Belle.”

Belle took her gardening gloves off, tossed them on the floor, and leaned against a book-littered desk. “I’m sorry, Adam,” she said.

The prince stared at the fire for a bit, his face twisted in bitter discontent. He mumbled, “It’s alright. I knew it couldn’t be that easy.”

Belle gazed at him, waves of hurt crashing over her heart. At first glance, anyone would think the beast was a harsh, frightening being—but seeing him so low and defeated, he resembled an abused hound more than anything.

Belle reached out and took one of Adam’s paws. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before making their way to the kitchens, Maurice offered to take the wagon back to the garden. The beasts guided Belle through the castle and down a long set of stairs to the scullery below. She moistened a rag and sat up on the prep table, at last able to meet his eyeline without straining her neck. Belle took his paw in her hand and dabbed softly at the scratches.

Adam watched her intently as she tended to his wound. She was precise and thoughtful, her tongue sticking slightly out of the side of her mouth like a mathematician solving an equation. The beast smiled tenderly. His heart dissolved from its disenchanted stone into sweet meringue.

“What did you do before,” Belle asked, “when you had no one around to tend to your injuries?”

The beast chuckled. “I took care not to get hurt.”

Belle gave him a look, then smiled. She shook her head and focused on his paw again.

There was a long silence. Adam swallowed and admitted a truth without knowing why. “I tried to take my life once.”

Belle stopped and looked at him, stunned.

“Twice, actually, ” the beast continued. “A year after the curse, I tried to hang myself in my human form. Tried again the next day as a beast, but had no luck.” He snorted. “When the Enchantress said forever, she meant it.”

“Please stop,” Belle said. She climbed off the table and turned away from the prince, wringing the cloth in her hands. “I don’t want to hear that.”

The prince hung his head, embarrassed and ashamed for making her feel bad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Belle finally turned, tears in her eyes. “I feel so helpless,” she said. “I’m so used to being able to find a solution to a problem—in a book or a sketch or a math problem—but _this_ . . .” She sighed, shaking her head. “What if we never find a way to help you?”

Adam cleared away the tickle in his throat. Seeing Belle upset, nearly crying, was a thousand times worse than spending years alone in this dark castle. He approached her slowly. “You’ll move on,” he said. “Get married. Have children. I’ll become a story again that you tell them about before bedtime—”

“No!” Belle cried. Tears finally spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks. “I won’t let you be forgotten again.” She sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and drew a breath to calm herself. “You asked me why I was so eager to help you. It’s because I know what it’s like to feel so alone, you could crumble into dust. I know what it’s like to have someone obsessively chasing after you and—”

“Belle, you’re stronger than I’ll ever be,” Adam said. He reached out and cupped his paw against her cheek. Her tears dampened his fur. “You’re free,” he insisted. “Don’t ever forget that.”

Belle’s face scrunched as she struggled to hold in her pain. “The freest I’ve ever felt is when I’ve been here with you,” she whispered. “Everywhere else is . . .”

“Obsolete?”

Belle laughed. “Yes.”

The beast smiled slowly. If he were in his human form, he would have held her tight against him and stroked her back to soothe her. In his human form, he’d wipe away her tears with a delicate finger. If he were human, he would not hesitate to kiss her.

“Everything alright down there?” Maurice called from up the stairs.

Belle and Adam jerked away from each other at the old man’s voice. Belle wiped her tears again and cleared her throat. “We’ll be right up, Papa.” She turned for the steps, but the beast stopped her by taking her hand.

“Belle?” he asked.

She turned her head to him.

Adam’s eyes frantically searched her face, his heart beating wildly. “If I were human . . .” he began. “That is, if you met me as a man instead of a beast, would you—”

“Yes,” Belle said breathlessly, reading his mind. She paused before adding. “That’s the last reason I’m trying to break the curse. For us.” She slipped her hand away from his and walked up the stairs two at a time.

Adam stood alone in the kitchen, his mind whirling, legs wobbly. He smiled to himself, feeling a great hope rise in his chest like a plume of smoke. They would win, he realized. They would defeat the Enchantress and her curse. Love was stronger than any dark magic.

***

That night was the first night in a long time Adam was able to fall asleep with relative ease. He smiled as he slept, dreaming of Belle. He touched his face and whispered something, then kissed him lightly on the lips. It was so real and impactful, he woke up, expecting Belle to be right next to him in bed.

And someone _was_ there.

The Enchantress smiled at him, the covers drawn up to her chest. She wore a sheer nightgown underneath, her hair undone and splayed along her satin pillow. Adam closed his eyes and breathed out a frustrated sigh.

“It’s alright,” the Enchantress whispered. She touched his face.

With his eyes still closed, he leaned into her palm.

“ _I won’t let you be forgotten again_ ,” Belle had said.

“It’s alright,” the Enchantress murmured again.

_The freest I’ve ever felt is when I’ve been here with you . . ._

Adam gulped as the Enchantress’s fingers slid down his neck.

Belle’s face against his palm. Belle’s hair, smelling like earth.

The prince leaned over and kissed his bedmate. She laid back, letting him mount her as their lips smacked together. But it wasn’t the witch Adam was kissing. It was Belle.

It was Belle’s lips he was tasting, Belle’s skin that he licked and nipped and tongued. He cupped her breast, grinding his pelvis against the woman, imaging that it was Belle who moaned and writhed beneath him. It was her, only her—the only woman he knew now he could only be with, heart and soul.

“I knew it,” the Enchantress whispered. “I knew you’d choose me.”

“Don’t talk,” Adam ordered, diving his mouth into hers once more.

The prince reached under the blankets and hiked her nightgown up to feel her smooth buttocks. He squeeze a cheek, his cock unbearably hard.

Belle’s lips. Belle’s neck. Belle’s legs and breasts and rear and sighs of pleasure. It was her and no one else.

“Belle,” Adam whispered against her neck.

The Enchantress put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “What did you say?” she demanded, staring up at his flushed face.

The spell was broken. Adam blinked and finally saw what was there all along. “I didn’t say anything.”

The Enchantress crawled out from underneath him and jumped out of bed. She glared at the prince, her hair tousled and her face crimson with anger. “You said _her_ name! You said—”

“I don’t care!” Adam yelled. He tore the sheets off of himself and climbed out of bed to face the witch. “I want _her_! I’ll never, as long as I live, want you!”

The Enchantress shook her head, her lips trembling as though he were holding a knife poised at her stomach. “You don’t mean that,” she whimpered. “You kissed _me_! You wanted _me_!”

“I’d die first!” the prince cried.

The Enchantress held her hands over her ears and screamed. It was a shrill, otherworldly shriek that knocked Adam to his knees and shattered the glass in the windows. There was a great _boom_ from downstairs, as though a cannon had pummeled through the castle.

The witch’s screaming ceased, and as Adam opened his eyes, he saw that she had vanished. Shards of glass littered the floor of his room. He stood slowly, legs shaking. It him a long time to finally take the steps out of his room. Glass punctured his skin, but he didn’t care.

He hobbled down the stairs and through the corridors to the library where a strange smell was coming from. He opened the large doors and saw that every book on the shelf had been flung off, the pages shredded and falling around the room like thick snow.

Every history textbook.

Every language guide.

Every novel Belle had delighted over and marveled at and held to her chest like a child.

Every reference to magic and curses.

It was gone.


	11. Love in Many Forms

Today was the day.

M. Benoit had a good feeling about this particular morning. When she had arrived home last night with her father, he had asked Belle for some veggies from her garden. She promised to deliver him some the next day.

It was the next day, and M. Benoit had on his best suit and shoes. He combed his hair, shaved, and awaited by the window for Belle to arrive. When she knocked, he jumped up from his seat and hurried to answer it.

“Good morning, _mademoiselle_.”

“Good morning,” Belle said, grinning. She was wearing her traveling cloak, no doubt off on another mysterious adventure with her father today.

“Please, come in.” M. Benoit stepped aside to let her through.

Belle set her basket on the table and began unloading the veggies. “How is Adele?”

“Very well,” the blacksmith said, straightening his tie. “She’s with Madame Gerard, learning to sew. If we’re lucky, she’ll have a job in the dress shop by next year.”

Belle smiled politely. It broke her heart to think of poor Adele’s little fingers stitching away at a silk bonnet, but it wasn’t her place to question a father’s motives. She thought of the thousands of books in Adam’s library, how easy it would be to take one or a dozen with her and shower Adele with more knowledge and adventure than she knew what to do with. Then, another thought came to Belle’s mind.

“ _Monsieur_?” she asked, turning to the blacksmith. “You mentioned once that your father said he worked at Ada—uh, the Beast Prince’s castle.”

M. Benoit knitted his brows. “Yes . . . but it was just a story he told. No one took him seriously.”

“What did he say he did at the castle? Was he a servant, or—”

The blacksmith chuckled. “Why the interest?”

Belle looked down at the leafy greens on the table and shrugged. “Will you indulge me? Just this once?”

M. Benoit’s face softened. His heart hammered like steel against the anvil he worked with every day. He couldn’t deny her a thing. He was utterly wrapped around her finger. “When I was a boy, just five, my father got a job as a gardener for a nobleman. He didn’t say where, just that it was half a day’s walk. He came home one night a few months later, babbling about a witch and a rose.”

Belle’s face lit up. “The rose—did he say anything else about it?”

M. Benoit raised a brow at Belle’s peculiar question. “Might have said something about it glowing. Said he was so frightened, he ran off into the woods.” The blacksmith shook his head. “My father told my mother of a beast and a curse and all sorts of crazy things. I remember him saying over and over, ‘She gave him her heart, she gave him her heart.’ The town wanted to lock him away, but Mama insisted it was just a bedtime story he made up. She tried to save him as best she could.”

“Tried?” Belle asked.

M. Benoit’s face turned grave and sullen. “My father ran off when I was eight. He said he was going to get proof. He never came back.”

“Was he never seen again?”

The blacksmith looked at Belle. Pain clouded his green eyes. He blinked, smiled weakly, then shook his head. “No matter anymore,” he said. “The past is in the past.”

Belle nodded. She took the rest of the vegetables out of the basket and offered him an encouraging grin. “Perhaps your father is still out there somewhere.”

 M. Benoit chuckled softly. “Perhaps.” He eyed Belle up and down, tugging on his tie nervously. “Uh, not meaning to keep you here any longer, but . . . I-I wonder if I could ask you something.”

“Of course,” Belle said.

The blacksmith gulped, sweat forming along his hairline. “The thing of it is . . .” He cleared his throat. “Adele is very fond of you. She— _we_ —are so grateful for your company and your kindness.”

Belle smiled. “I’m happy to hear that. Adele is a wonderful girl.”

“Yes,” M. Benoit agreed. He wrung his hands together. “I miss her mother very much, but . . . I feel like it’s time to—to move on. To marry again.”

Belle’s face dropped. “ _Monsieur_ —”

“Jesper,” he said. The blacksmith reached out a hand and said, “And before you reply, please let me say my piece.”

Belle put a hand to her neck, rubbing it anxiously. She waited for him to continue.

“I—I know I don’t have much to offer you. And I know I’m not as handsome as someone like Captain Gaston, but I can offer you protection and a good home. I’ll treat you well.” Jesper drew a shaky breath and took Belle’s free hand. “If you’ll have me, I promise I’ll do everything to make you happy so that . . . so that one day you might even have affection for me. As I do you.”

Tears sprang to Belle’s eyes. It was a lovely proposal—honest and sincere—but she knew she could not have him. In another life, if she had never met the prince, Belle might have considered it. M. Benoit was a good man, handsome in his own way and a hard worker. But he was not the man she wanted. And it broke her heart to have to reject him.

“I’m very sorry, _monsieur_ ,” Belle whispered hoarsely. “You’re an honorable man, but . . .”

The blacksmith’s smile faded. He nodded slowly, then gave her a pained smile. “I understand.”

“I do enjoy your company, and I love Adele dearly, but . . . I’m afraid my heart is already spoken for.”

Jesper cast his eyes downward. He released Belle’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning red. Of course she was already given an offer. How _couldn’t_ she? Belle was the prettiest girl in town, and all had seen how persistent Captain Gaston had been in his chase of her. It seemed she had finally given in to his affections.

 M. Benoit offered Belle another terse smile and said, “It’s alright,” he said. “If you love another, then I’d be a fool to pursue you any further.” He chuckled to himself genuinely. “God knows no one could have taken me away from my Marie, except for death.”

Belle pressed her lips in a tight line. She moved around the table and planted a kiss on the blacksmith’s cheek. He chortled, took her hand, and squeezed it. “I hope your love is worthy of you.”

Belle smiled and nodded. “Yes . . . yes, I believe he is.”

***

Maurice didn’t ask his daughter why she was so late coming back from the blacksmith’s. He simply helped her into the wagon hitched to Philippe, tugged on the reins, and started them off on yet another adventure to the castle.

Belle was quite throughout the trip. She worried her bottom lip, wondering if she had made the right decision rejecting M. Benoit. She didn’t love him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t _come_ to love him. Her only other prospects were a vain, cruel man and a prince trapped under a potentially unbreakable curse.

Belle knew she could never accept Gaston, even if he magically changed his ways overnight. Then again, what kind of life would it be for her if the prince’s curse never broke? How could they even live together, much less touch skin-to-skin?

Maurice tried asking his daughter what was wrong, but she brushed him off, claiming she was simply tired.

When they arrived to the castle, the beast wasn’t there to greet them at the door as usual. Maurice and Belle looked at one another. It was strange, and something in the air didn’t feel right. They checked the banquet hall but didn’t find him. They searched the kitchens, the ballroom, the armory—until finally, they came upon the library.

Belle gasped. All the books had been ripped from the shelves, thousands of leather covers littered amongst blankets of shredded paper. In the middle of the library, the beast lay on the floor, unmoving.

“Oh, God!” Belle cried. She began to run towards him, then stopped when she heard a thud behind her. Maurice had fallen to the floor. “Papa!” She rushed to him and turned him over. He was breathing.

“Settle yourself,” a voice said.

Belle stood and whipped around to the voice. A woman stood near the beast, wearing a green dress with a high collar necklace of shimmering diamonds. Her blonde hair was done up with braids and ribbons. She reached down and stroked Adam’s thick fur.

“They’re only sleeping,” the woman said.

Belle clenched her fists. “Who are you?”

The Enchantress grinned. “You know who I am.”

Belle swallowed the lump in her throat. Every muscle in her body was tense, save for her heart, which fluttered like a trapped bird’s wings. “What do you want?” Belle demanded. Her voice cracked only a little.

The Enchantress stood and walked around the beast, sifting through the pulverized pages towards Belle. “I wanted to see the woman who captured my prince’s heart.” She reached a hand out and took Belle’s chin with her fingers. “I must say, I’m disappointed.”

Belle stared directly into the woman’s eyes. They were as cold and calculating as Adam had described. She was beautiful, to be sure, but so was fire. Belle felt at though she were staring into the very flames of hell.

“Do you love him?” the Enchantress asked.

Belle blinked as hot, itchy tears welled in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

A dark shadow crossed over the witch’s face. Then she laughed, released Belle’s chin, and turned away. “Love makes us fools, doesn’t it?”

“Some more than others,” Belle said.

The Enchantress walked causally around Belle, sizing her up. “A sharp tongue,” she noted. “I admire that.” She stopped, facing Belle once more. “But you’re foolish if you think this will end in your favor.”

Belle gulped her tears back down her throat and said, “I have faith in—”

“What?” the Enchantress sneered. “ _Love_? The power of ‘goodness’?” She laughed. “You read too many books, child.”

“I’ll find a way,” Belle said sternly. “I’ll never stop until I do.”

The Enchantress clapped her hands and chuckled. “The only thing more amusing than your naivety is the fact that you’ll never even see his human form.” She leaned in directly to Belle’s face. “Would you like me to describe it to you? Would you like to know about his broad chest and strong jaw? The length of his—”

“Stop it!” Belle cried. She began to push the witch away, when the Enchantress’s hand wrapped around her throat. The witch lifted Belle off the ground as if she weighed nothing.

“The prince and I may have a deal, but I won’t hesitate to snap your neck in two if you _ever_ touch me again!” The witch’s voice echoed through the library, through the very castle, itself.

Belle gagged and beat at the woman’s hand to be freed. The Enchantress squeezed harder to drive the point home, then vanished in a cloud of golden dust. Belle fell to the floor, gasping for breath.

“Belle?” It was Maurice. She turned to him as he crawled towards her. “What happened?” he asked.

Belle clutched her aching throat and shook her head. “She was here. The Enchantress.”

“Belle!”

The father and daughter turned their heads. The beast was rising to his haunches, face twisted in pain and confusion. He looked at his guests and scrambled towards them. “Are you alright?” he cried, taking Belle’s face in his massive paws. “What did she say? Did she hurt you?”

The tears that had been lying dormant in Belle finally spilled from her eyes. She leaned into his touch and said, “I was so afraid. When I saw you lying here, I thought—”

“I know.” Adam drew Belle close to his furry chest. She sank into his body, hugging him tightly.

Maurice stood and stepped back a few paces. He gaped at the two. It was no secret they held feelings for each other—Maurice may have been old, but he wasn’t blind. He saw they way they talked and touched and stared, but he never considered anything real would come from it. The idea of Belle staying with the prince—the _beast_ —churned his stomach. There may have been a man underneath that thick coat of fur, but from his angle, she was still embracing a creature.

“Belle,” Maurice said. “We should leave.”

His daughter raised her head from the beast’s chest and looked at Maurice. “What? No! We can’t leave him here alone.”

“Your father’s right, Belle,” Adam said. “It was selfish of me to let you keep coming back here. It’s not safe.”

“How can you say that?” Belle cried, standing. “I promised to help you break the curse. I’m not going to abandon you!”

“Belle, please!” Maurice pleaded. “I lost your mother and I won’t lose you, too!”

Belle looked at her father, then back at the beast. “So I have no say in this, then?”

The men didn’t respond.

Belle shook her head and wiped her tears away. “Fine,” she said coolly. “We’ll leave today.” Belle stared resolutely at her father. “But I’m coming back tomorrow, with or without you.”

***

As Belle and her father rode back home from the castle, Gaston was stopping by the blacksmith to see if his cutlass had been re-formed. It had been a long day, and it was only half over. His hunting trip was fruitless (so to speak), his breakfast at the tavern was overcooked, and he couldn’t find his favorite hairbrush.

Gaston greeted M. Benoit indifferently. “Is my sword ready, or will I have to shell out another bag of coins?”

The blacksmith nodded. “It’s ready, Captain.” He ducked inside and came back out a moment later with the cutlass wrapped in cloth. “As you asked. “Sharpened and straightened out.”

Gaston took the sword and tossed the cloth on the ground. He examined it, held it up to the light, then fingered the edge to check its sharpness. “I suppose this will do,” he sighed.

He began to turn away, when the blacksmith called out, “Congratulations are in order for you, Captain.”

This piqued Gaston’s interest. He turned. “For me? Why?”

“Your engagement to Belle,” M. Benoit explained. “She told me as much this morning.”

Gaston studied the blacksmith’s face, wondering if this was some kind of ruse. He hated tricks. Hated even more being the butt of a joke. But the man seemed sincere, a little sad, even. No surprise there, Gaston thought. A woman as beautiful as Belle being off the market would anguish any man.

“She said we were engaged?” Gaston asked.

“She said her heart was spoken for. I . . . I assumed it was you.”

Gaston raised a brow. A devious smile curled his lips. _Finally_. All it took was a few days  to let her stew, and at last she had changed her mind. Women like her were masters of playing hard to get and he was almost disappointed that the hunt was over. Almost.

“Thank you, M. Benoit,” Gaston said. “I look forward to seeing you at our wedding.”

He turned sharply on his heels and strutted to Belle’s cottage, swinging the cutlass around like a giddy child. When Gaston ascended the steps and pounded on the cottage door, he turned and looked at the village milling about. He grinned, utterly satisfied.

When there was no answer, Gaston peered into the windows. The home was empty. She had her father must have gone to Bonne Terre again. No matter, Gaston thought. With a husband to take care of, Belle wouldn’t have a need for midwifery skills and she’d never have to waste time in Bonne Terre again.

Gaston sat on the stoop of the cottage, the cutlass in his lap. He was determined to wait for Belle and her father to return, even if it wasn’t until dark.

Gaston licked his lips. He suddenly had an overwhelming desire for meat.


	12. The Beast Beneath the Man

As they neared their cottage, Belle groaned when she saw Gaston sitting on their stoop. “What does _he_ want?” she asked her father.

“What he always wants,” Maurice muttered, guiding Philippe to their home. Once hitched, they both stepped down from the wagon. Gaston was there immediately to give Belle his hand.

“Ah, _mon petite chou_ ,” he sighed. “You’re both back earlier than usual.”

Belle jerked her hand away from Gaston and started towards the cottage with her father. “The path to Bonne Terre was . . . obstructed.”

“If you don’t mind, Captain,” Maurice said, “my daughter and I have a lot to do around the house today.”

“I should think so,” Gaston said, grinning. “What with a wedding to plan and everything.”

Belle and her father stopped in the garden and looked at each other. They both turned to Gaston. “Wedding?” they asked simultaneously.

Gaston grinned widely, opened his arms, and scooped Maurice into a bone-crushing hug. “Father!” he cried.

Maurice squirmed and broke free of the large man’s intense embrace. “What on earth is he on about, Belle?”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“Come now,” Gaston said to Belle. “M. Benoit told me everything. How your heart was spoken for . . . our impending nuptuals.”

Belle’s face scrunched in confusion, then she closed her eyes in realization. It was true she had told the blacksmith of her love for another, but she neglected to tell him who, exactly, had her heart. And of course Gaston would assume it was himself. Everything was always about himself.

Belle opened her eyes and said, “Monsieur, I’m afraid you’re mistaken—”

“I’m sure I’m not,” Gaston said, taking her hand and kissing it.

Belle tore away from him. “Gaston,” she said sternly. “Please listen to me carefully. We are not engaged. I have no desire to marry. I will _never_ marry you. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to accept that.” She linked arms with her father and they turned back to the stoop.

Gaston clenched his jaw, anger rising within him. He scrabbled ahead of the father and daughter and stood in their path. “Were you lying to the blacksmith, then? Your heart isn’t spoken for?”

Belle looked away. If she said no, Gaston might tell M. Benoit, breaking to poor blacksmith’s heart. “I didn’t lie,” Belle said. “My heart belongs to another.”

“Who?” Gaston asked. “No one else in this village has tried to woo you.”

“He isn’t from this village,” Maurice said. “He’s from . . . Bonne Terre.”

Belle looked at her father, stunned he was contributing to her half lie.

Gaston looked at the man, then back at Belle. “You weren’t going to Bonne Terre to be a midwife. You were being courted by another man.”

Belle nodded, appeased by the necessary deception they had built. “I’m sorry, Gaston. Good day.” She tried to move around him, but he blocked her.

“You lied to me,” Gaston said through gritted teeth. “You led me on!”

“What?” Belle cried.

“How dare you say something like that!” Maurice said. “Stand aside, Captain, and let us through.”

“No one lies to me!” Gaston yelled. “You made a fool out of me!”

Belle put up a hand to calm him. The Captain’s face was getting red, a vein popping out of his neck. “Gaston—”

“Does your husband-to-be know that you’re a deceitful whore?”

Before Belle could even open her mouth, Maurice’s fist went flying, clocking Gaston right in the nose. The Captain stumbled off the steps, holding a hand to his face. Villagers stopped in the street and gaped at the scene.

“Papa!” Belle cried.

Maurice held his fist. “Bloody hell, his face is made of stone!” he cried.

“What’s going on?” a male villager yelled.

“Gaston’s been assaulted!” a woman shrieked.

Belle wrapped an arm around her father. “Let’s get you inside.”

“Maurice!” Gaston cried. “You’ll pay for that!”

Belle turned her head slightly as she opened the front door. She saw Gaston at the foot of the stoop, nose bloodied, white-hot rage flashing in his eyes. Belle hurried Maurice inside and closed the door, locking it.

Outside, the villagers murmured loudly as Gaston shouted expletives and threats.

“This isn’t over!” the Captain yelled. “ _This isn’t over_!”

***

As mid-morning turned to late afternoon, Belle finally came out of her room, distraught at the events of the day. She was mortified—angry at her father for making them leave Adam at the castle, but grateful her father defended her from Gaston. She didn’t know how to approach him.

Maurice was at his work desk, sketching plans for a new music box. Belle approached him sheepishly. “How’s your hand?” she asked.

Maurice looked up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glanced at his red knuckles. “It’s fine. Gaston got the worst of it.”

Belle sat on a bench at the table opposite of Maurice. “Papa, I’m so sorry.”

Maurice took his spectacles off and looked at his daughter. “Why are you apologizing? Gaston was out of line. No man should ever speak to you like that. I should have . . .” Maurice sighed. “If I were a younger man, I would’ve done much worse to him.”

Belle nodded slowly. She looked down at the cluttered table. “Why did you lie for me? About Bonne Terre?”

Maurice stood and paced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not a fool, Belle. I know we can’t tell anyone about the prince. And I know . . . I know you care for him. As I suspect he cares for you.”

Belle swallowed, terrified to say the words. But it was time. It might be the only way to get through to her father. “I love him, Papa.”

Maurice stopped pacing and looked down at his daughter.

“I know it’s absurd,” Belle continued, tears forming in her eyes, “but there’s a man beneath that beast. And he’s hardly a beast at all, except for his appearance. He’s kind and gentle and—”

“I know,” Maurice admitted. He sat with his daughter on the bench and took her hands in his. “He’s exactly the man you deserve, Belle. He would never speak to you the way Gaston did.” The old man sighed. “But that’s just it, darling. He’s _not_ a man. He’s under a dangerous curse. One that could get us both killed if we keep trying to help him.”

“I don’t care,” Belle said. A tear fell down her cheek. “I’m not afraid of the Enchantress.”

Maurice smiled weakly and brushed the tear from Belle’s cheek with his thumb. “I know,” he said. “You’re very brave. Just as brave as your mother was.”

“Then let me do this,” Belle whispered. “Let me find a way to help him.”

Maurice stared at his daughter, his one precious treasure. She was not a child anymore, that much was evident, but he couldn’t risk losing her. The thought of her being tortured or killed by the witch sent a cold, shooting pain through his heart. She might hate him forever for this, but Maurice was adamant in saying, “I won’t let you get hurt. I can’t.”

Belle’s eyes frantically searched her father’s face. “What are you saying?”

Maurice squeezed her hands tightly. “We can’t go back to the castle.”

Belle stood, outraged. “You can’t make that decision for the both of us.”

“Belle—”

“I promised I would help him!” she cried. “I promised not to let him be forgotten!”

“Belle, please,” Maurice pleaded, standing and taking her shoulders. “You have to let him go.”

“No!”

“You have to stay here, where it’s safe.”

“You cannot make me!” she yelled. Belle jerked away from her father and ran upstairs to her room. She slammed the door shut, hating just how adolescent she felt in this moment.

Belle sat on her bed, hunched over in despair. She looked at her end table. The rose Adam had given her father at their first meeting was still there, dried and shriveled and purple-black. She picked it up and held the brittle stem between her fingers. There was no magic in it, no golden light or hushed incantations or sigils which held clues.

It was just a rose. And Belle had no power over it.

***

Afternoon bled into evening. Gaston hunkered into his corner of the tavern and ordered ale after ale. His nose was red and bruised, the blood cleaned up but the embarrassment still fresh. How could that old man have gotten the best of him? And how could the townspeople just stand there and let it happen. Even know, the men in the taverns just glanced at him occasionally, whispering to themselves.

“ _Did you hear about Gaston_?” they tittered.

“ _Felled by crazy old Maurice_.”

“ _Some hero. Will he be wearing Belle petticoats next_?”

Gaston finished his fourth beer and threw the tankard into the roaring fire. He sighed and looked up at the dozens of antlers adorning the wall, animals he had stalked and killed with ease. If he could let one frail old man get a punch in, what would happen tomorrow if he went hunting for deer? Would it slip away as easily as Belle’s affections had?

He thought of the war. The gunpowder. The spray of blood. The cries of dying men. He remembered one particular battle where the enemy flanked them at the bottom of a ravine. The other side had gotten a few good shots in, but as their numbers dwindled and Gaston’s company overtook them, he found a young boy—no older than 19—to make an example of.

Gaston had shot the boy in the head, and when his body fell to the ground, Gaston took the bayonet from his gun and stuck it into the soldier’s chest. He gutted the boy and took out his heart, taking a greedy bite as he stared directly at the remaining enemy soldiers.

The men ran away.

As Gaston chewed the slimy, sinewy meat, he turned to his own company with a smile. His platoon gaped at him, terror shrouding their faces.

Gaston smiled at the memory, the flames of the fire dancing seductively. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned his head, ready to tell the person off.

A woman smiled down at Gaston. She was blonde, dressed in a tight corset that highlighted her ample breasts. She raised a suggestive brow and handed him another tankard of beer. “Such a serious face,” she sang. “What could a man be thinking with a face like that?”

Gaston took the beer from her. He was captivated by her icy eyes and pouty lips. He had never seen her at the tavern before. Then again, he ignored most women who weren’t Belle . . . until now.

“Have you ever hunted?” Gaston asked the stranger.

The woman smiled and sat on the other chair by the fire. She scooted it closer to Gaston and said, “I’m on sort of a hunt, myself, right now.”

Gaston rolled his eyes. “Money?”

The blonde laughed. “No, not money. I deal in matters of . . . the flesh.”

Gaston looked over at the door of the pub and motioned towards it. “You’ll find a brothel two towns over.” He eyed the woman’s cleavage and grinned slowly. “Then again, I’m sure I could be of some assistance.”

She laughed again. Whores always laughed at the simplest things. Gaston had known many during the war, and they were all the same—eager to please and impatient for coin. Gaston thought it was odd that a prostitute like herself didn’t want money. It was a like a fish that had no need for water.

“I was hoping I could be of assistance to _you_ ,” the woman said. “I saw what happened today. The man that struck you. The woman who embarrassed you.”

Gaston frowned. He drank from the tankard and said, “I don’t need sympathy from a whore.”

He thought she would be offended, but the blonde simply smiled. “I won’t offer it,” she said. “I know what kind of man you are.” She slid her hand up his large, beefy arm. “You’re a fighter. More importantly, you’re a winner.”

“Yes . . .” Gaston drew in a breath. The woman’s hand left a scorching trail along his sleeve. His heart quickened with lust.

“I don’t like what that woman did to you,” The woman whispered, leaning closer to him. “She thinks you’re a loser. Not me, though. I know what kind of man you are.”

Gaston closed his eyes as her fingers curled in his hair.

“You’re a hunter,” the blonde whispered. “And I want to help you get revenge.”

Gaston’s eyes fluttered open. He glanced at the people in the tavern, but they chatted and drank as though Gaston and the woman weren’t even there. He looked at her and asked, “How? Do you know—”

“You need to say it,” the woman said, tugging on his hair.

Gaston grunted at her force. His member twitched. He liked his girls rough. It was all the more satisfying to tame them in the end.

“Say you want my help,” the blonde murmured. She reached her other hand to his crotch and rubbed it delicately. “You have to _say_ it.”

Gaston groaned, his chest heaving. He tilted his head back, yearning to be freed from his britches. “I want your help,” he uttered. “Please.”

The woman smiled. If anyone in the tavern had noticed them, they would have seen the Enchantress lean in and whisper in Gaston’s ear. They would have seen a golden light pass from her lips to his ear. If anyone had noticed and then strained to listen, they could’ve heard the strange, foreign words the witch was murmuring to him, words tinged with malice.

If anyone in the tavern cared to actually look at Gaston, they would have seen the man’s eyes flash with a curious red glow, and the devious smile that crossed his lips would have frightened them away.

As it was, they saw nothing.

The Enchantress leaned away slightly and whispered in English, “Go to the woods. Bring your weapons. Get me her heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not gonna lie, this chapter was a chore to get through. It's more like filler to set up the next few chapters, and unfortunately, I'm feeling a little stuck on something in particular. If anyone would like to help or offer advice, please PM me. I'm desperate!  
> Thanks always for reading and commenting and being awesome. Love you guys!


	13. The Hunt

That night, Belle couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were crowded with “what-ifs”—what if she never saw Adam again, what if the Enchantress tried to hurt her or her father, what if the curse was never broken—what if, what if, what if.

But the worst thought of all was that she would never be able to tell the prince how she really felt.

Belle climbed out of bed carefully, the moonlight illuminating her body. She got dressed, gathered her cloak, and crept downstairs. Belle stopped at her father’s door, pressing her ear against it to hear him snoring. She closed her eyes.

What if, for some reason, this was the last time she’d see him?

Belle wanted  more than anything to open the door and give him a kiss, a reassuring pat on the hand, but waking him would mean the end of her mission. She whispered, “I love you, Papa,” and moved away from the door. Belle gathered a lantern, tiptoed outside, and closed the cottage door behind her as quietly as a whisper.

The streets were empty. Wind rustled the trees. Belle saddled Philippe and climbed atop him. She stared at her small, cozy cottage for a few moments, her fingers shaking at those unbearable what-ifs.

What if she failed?

What if she succeeded?

What if everything changed for the worse?

But then Belle thought of Adam. How he held her earlier that day. How, even in his beast form, it was the most safe and comfortable she had ever felt. Belle thought of his icy blue eyes, the sadness that consumed them and the hope that flooded them whenever he saw her.

Belle tugged on Philippe’s reins and guided him away from the cottage. They forged ahead through the empty, narrow streets. Belle’s breath caught in her throat as they neared the woods. Something felt . . . off. Then again, it had been a while since she rode through the woods by herself in the dark.

Belle guided her horse further. After a few minutes of trotting along, Philippe began to act strangely. He whinnied, stopping to stomp his hoof and shake his mane.

“What’s wrong, Philippe?” Belle asked, patting his neck.

The horse neighed loudly and reared back on his hind legs. Belle cried out, urging the animal to calm down. She looked around the dark trees as they swayed in the wind. She strained to hear wolves or deer or something else that might be spooking Philippe, but all was silent as the grave.

Finally, when it seemed like the horse had calmed down enough, Belle urged him further. They reached the fork in the path that led to the castle. Belle guided her steed to the left where snow was swirling and whistling.

Philippe whinnied again, stopping along the path and backing up. Belle held the reins tightly and clicked her tongue. It was only another twenty minutes or so the castle, ten if they rode quickly.

“Steady,  Philippe,” Belle whispered.

The horse suddenly stopped. Belle could hear the crunching of leaves, the breaking of a branch, and before she had a chance to turn and assess the noise, a shot rang out into the night.

Philippe wailed, jumping onto his hind legs again and bucking his rider off. Belle fell to the cold ground, dropping her lantern and shattering it. The light was snuffed out. She sucked in a deep breath, shaken by the outburst. Belle sat up to see Philippe galloping away from her down the path.

Belle touched the back of her throbbing head. She stood on shaking legs, surveying her surroundings. She heard a rustling, the click of something, then another shot rang out. A bullet whizzed past her and hit a nearby tree.

“Stop!” Belle cried. It was too late at night (or too early in the morning) for hunting, but whomever had the gun either didn’t care or didn’t realize.

There was the shuffling of heavy feet. Belle looked up at the hill along the path. Through the trees, a man in red was stalking closer.

“Gaston?” Belle murmured.

It was almost a relief. For a brief moment earlier, Belle had wondered if the Enchantress was tormenting her. A man with a gun was a scary sight, but a vengeful woman with unpredictable powers was worse.

“Gaston, what’re you—?”

Gaston cocked his rifle, aiming it straight at Belle. Her eyes widened. She turned and ran haphazardly through the trees. Another shot rang out and a bullet whizzed past her into the snow. Belle screamed and glanced behind to see Gaston chasing after her.

 _This can’t be happening_ , Belle thought. _This is a dream. This is a hallucination the Enchantress has conjured up._ Surely the man couldn’t have been so broken-hearted that he would resort to murder.

But another gunshot convinced Belle otherwise.

Belle ran blindly through the snowy forest. She couldn’t tell if she was going east or west, towards the castle or towards the village. Anywhere was best, as long as she got there. The villagers would protect her and Adam . . . well, Adam might kill Gaston.

Belle prayed she was heading towards the castle.

“Belle!” Gaston yelled out. “You can’t run forever!”

Belle hooked right and scrambled down a ravine. She slid along the slippery snow to the bottom, landing in a wet, slushy puddle. Belle lurched forward, crawling along the ground, then lifted herself up and kept running.

_BANG!_

Another gunshot roared.

Amazingly, the bullet missed her.

Belle found a large fallen tree and climbed under it, hiding beneath. She watched as Gaston stopped at the top of the ravine to reload his rifle. Belle put a hand over her own mouth to silence her heavy breathing. She looked around for something to defend herself with, but there was nothing. Nothing that could stop a hulking monster like Gaston, anyway.

As Gaston reloaded, Belle took her cloak off and draped it over one of the fallen tree’s long branches. It may only buy her a second or two, but those seconds were precious. She drew in a deep breath and darted again through the woods, weaving around the trees.

“I can do this all night, Belle!” Gaston bellowed. “This is my favorite part of the hunt!”

Belle hid behind another large tree and turned to see where Gaston was. He had slid down the ravine, stalking slowly through the snow.

“Your pulse is racing,” Gaston said. “Your flight response is blocking any rational thought.” He saw Belle’s cloak and turned quickly, shooting off a round into the stump. When he realized he had been tricked, he glanced around the trees once more, his face twisted in anger.

 _Why is he doing this?_ Belle thought. She knew he was a cruel man, but she didn’t think he could be so crazy. Did the Enchantress have him bewitched? Had he discovered the truth of the Beast Prince and decided to be a hero for the village? Whatever the reason, he didn’t seem interested in mercy.

Belle swallowed hard and took off running again. She heard Gaston chasing after her, the snow crunching under his large boots. “Stop!” Belle cried. “Please stop!”

The rifle went off. Belle felt a sharp, burning pain along her right shoulder. She stumbled, grabbing her arm as a trickle of blood painted her fingers. It was enough for Gaston to catch up and hit her on the back of the head with the butt of his gun.

Belle fell to the ground. She cried out, squirming on her side in pain. Her arms were cold and her feet were numb, but nothing else mattered than the throbbing in her head and the sting of her grazed flesh. Belle looked up as Gaston loomed over her. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Why are you doing this?” she cried.

Amazingly, Gaston threw his gun aside. He smirked down at Belle—the same smirk he had given her for years, day in and day out, desperately trying to charm her. Only now, it wasn’t misguided flirting. Now, it was pure bloodlust.

“I know you must think me mad,” Gaston panted. He knelt, straddling Belle. “But I told you that meat tastes sweeter when the prey has been cornered.” He wrapped his large hands around her throat and squeezed. “And I am _dying_ to finally have your heart for myself.”

Belle batted at his hands, gasping for air. He was strong, too strong, and Belle was overcome with hopelessness, knowing she was about to die. She thought of her father. She thought of Adam. She thought of her mother’s brown eyes and long black hair. She thought of—

_BANG!_

A gunshot echoed through the forest. Gaston made a strange face and loosened his grasp on Belle. She saw a dribble of blood coming from his white vest near his heart.

_BANG!_

Another shot. The force of this one knocked Gaston back, freeing Belle. She coughed and wheezed, turning on her side. From the corner of her eye, she saw a hooded figure stomping towards Gaston’s writhing body. The man—she saw it was a man from his large, gloved hand—raised his flintlock and shot Gaston one last time. A spray of blood burst from the side of Gaston’s head and he lay completely still.

The cloaked man turned to Belle. She tried to see who it was—her father or M. Benoit or even Pére Robert—but his face was hidden in complete darkness. Even his clothes seemed black and shapeless in the dark of the night.

White spots burst and flashed before Belle’s eyes. It was the cold, the wound on her arm, the exertion of being chased, the air being choked from her. All of it bubbled to the surface at once in Belle’s head and she fainted, laying against the soft snow like a fallen angel.

The hooded man faltered, taking a step and then stopping. Finally, he holstered his gun under his cloak and picked Belle up, cradling her against him for warmth. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

***

Belle awoke not long after the terrifying chase. The first thing she saw was the moon hanging in the sky outside the window. Her head pounded and her shoulder cried out in pain. Belle’s eyes traveled around the room. She was in Adam’s castle—she could tell by the décor—but it was a room she had never been in. A fire blazed in the alabaster hearth. The bed she was lying on was covered in thick blankets and silk-lined pillows.

Belle lifted the covers from her chest and saw that she was only in her undergarments. She touched her forehead, willing her headache to subside. Her right shoulder had been bandaged neatly. There was hardly a spot of blood on the white gauze. Belle put a hand over her eyes, the image of Gaston’s murderous face looming over her too much to bear.

He was dead. Belle knew this much. And she didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him.

The door of the bedroom creaked and Belle gasped, whipping her head to the sound. “Who’s there?” she asked.

Silence.

Belle’s face softened. The hooded figure in the woods, the man who had saved her, it had to have been—

“Adam?”

There was another agonizing pause. The figure behind the door stepped forward just slightly, just enough for the light in the corridor to cast the shadow of a man on the floor.

“It’s me,” a husky voice said. “It’s Adam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Okay, okay. The chapter after this one is something I've been waiting for for a long time. Stay with me, guys. Stay with me.


	14. Maiden No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smut, smut, smut, smut!

Belle didn’t dare move. Adam, it seemed, was doing his best to stay hidden behind the door. She wondered if he was dressed in the same dark clothes as before in the woods. All of the turmoil from the last few hours, all of the fear and worry and exhaustion gave way to guilt. Never mind Gaston—just being here was a risk in and of itself.

Still, Belle was equally consumed with excitement.

“Are you alright?” Adam asked.

Belle blinked rapidly, struggling for words. All she could focus on was his voice—his deep, vibrating voice that entered her soul and warmed her body. He was human. He was, after days and weeks of seeing him as only a beast, a man.

“You saved me,” Belle breathed.

There was a long pause. The fire crackled in the hearth. “The man . . . he’s dead.”

Belle nodded as if he could see her. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry, I—”

“No, no.” Belle threw the covers off and stood from the bed. Her brain whirled. She waited for the room to come back into focus before saying, “You have nothing to apologize for. I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m not—”

“It was stupid of me, and I know how dangerous it is to be here at night, but I wanted to tell you . . .” Belle paused, an ocean rising in her chest. “I-I didn’t want you to think I abandoned you. Papa doesn’t want us to come back here, but I—”

“It’s alright,” Adam said. His voice was soft and smooth like warm honey. Belle physically shuddered. “I’m glad you’re here,” the prince continued.

Belle took a cautious step to the door. “You are?” she asked, grinning slightly.

“Of course,” Adam said. “You’re the reason I bother to wake up in the morning. And when I saw you were in danger in the woods—that monster chasing and laying hands on you . . .”

Adam stopped. His voice was growing tense and gruff. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The door creaked ever so slightly forward. “I don’t know what I would do if you were gone.”

Belle swallowed back the salty sea, its tide washing up her throat. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.

A small laugh escaped from Adam, as light as a puff of air. “You’re the one who saved _me_.”

Belle could quell the ocean no longer, and it rose to her eyes until tears poured down her cheeks. But they weren’t tears of sadness or fear or anger. As crazy as the situation was, as risky and foolish and confusing as it was, Belle was incandescently happy. She was with Adam. She could finally hear his real voice. A door might have separated them, but she never felt more close to him.

Belle slowly walked to the door and put a hand on it. “I don’t want to put you in anymore danger tonight. But I came here for another reason.”

“What’s the reason?” Adam asked.

Belle sniffled and wiped away her tears. “I wanted to tell you . . .” She exhaled deeply. “I-I wanted you to know that I . . .”

“I love you, too,” Adam said.

Belle’s eyes widened as she looked at the door. Her mouth was agape. She smiled slowly. “I love you, Adam. I want to stay here with you.” She sniffled again. “I don’t care about anything else—the witch, the curse—I just want to be with you.”

Adam breathed in slowly. “I want that, too.”

Belle laughed, wiping more of her tears away. “I know what to do now,” Belle said. “I know how we can break the curse. But you have to trust me.” She paused and leaned her forehead against the door. “Do you trust me, Adam?”

*          *          *

There were three things Belle needed to do while Adam waited outside. She had to rummage through the top drawer of the wardrobe for a small wooden box. Next, she had to fashion a blindfold, one that wouldn’t slip or untie easily.

Belle took one of the red silk pillowcases and slashed through it with a letter opener she found on the writing desk by the large windows. She made a practice tie around her head, looking up and down and left and right to make sure everything was completely black.

The last thing Belle had to do was sit on the bed and wait.

She set the wooden box beside her on the bed and tied the silk around her eyes. She knotted it tightly, her hands trembling. She waved a hand in front of her face, triple checking that she couldn’t see anything.

After a few deep breaths, Belle said, “I’m ready.”

The bedroom door creaked, then footsteps could be heard. Belle’s heart beat erratically as Adam neared. The footsteps stopped. Belle could smell him—sweat and dirt and leather and even a little wine. “Adam?”

“I’m here,” he said. He was so close now, standing right before her.

Adam stared at Belle. Now that he was in his human form, he was shorter, felt closer to her even as she sat on the bed. Her hair was a mess and her petticoat was splattered with mud and that awful graze on her shoulder looked painful, but Adam was in awe. She never looked more beautiful than tonight.

Adam reached out slowly and touched Belle’s cheek. She gasped, then placed a hand over his. Her skin was smooth and warm, felt a thousand times better on his own flesh than his beast form. He caressed her cheek lightly with his thumb. “You look so beautiful,” he sighed.

Belle smiled. She took his hand from her cheek and inspected it, running her fingers along the veins, the bump of each knuckle, down his long fingers to his nails where he habitually chewed them. She turned his hand palm up and kissed it.

Adam took Belle’s other hand and helped her stand from the bed. Her knees wobbled as she stood before him, then straightened.

Belle started to reach her hands out and asked, “May I?”

Adam smiled and nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Belle slowly reached her fingertips out to Adam. She touched his face, caressing his cheeks down to his jaw line, then back up to his ears and through his hair. She chuckled.

“Your hair is long,” Belle observed.

Adam chuckled. “Do you hate it?”

“No, of course not,” Belle said. She tilted her head down, then ran her fingers along his brows and down the bridge of his nose. She touched his lips and lingered for a moment. “I can see you,” she whispered.

Adam blinked heavily. His heart thudded slowly as if it were filled with stones. He was overcome with warmth and excitement and pure joy. No one, save for the Enchantress, had touched his true form in years. He felt like he was being born all over again, feeling sensations for the first time with no vocabulary to place them. If this was what love felt like, he would have undergone a thousand more curses just to have this moment again.

Belle’s fingers moved down Adam’s chin, then the length of his neck, and all the way to his chest where his undershirt was undone just a little. Belle kept going. Her fingers brushed over his nipples and Adam drew in a breath, excitement stirring in his loins. Before she could find the waist of his breeches, Adam took her hands to stop her.

“Wait,” he said. “We should do this first.”

Belle nodded. She felt Adam brush against her as he grabbed the wooden box from the bed. He opened the lid and took out a diamond ring studded with rubies. Adam set the box on the bed’s end table and took Belle’s left hand.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

Belle gulped, then nodded. “She can’t force you to marry her if you’re already taken.”

“I mean, are _you_ sure about this?” Adam said. “Because I should tell you—if we do this, I won’t easily give you up.”

Belle smiled. “Nor will I,” she responded. She reached for his hand and took it. “I want to be with you, Adam. I don’t care about anything else. I just want _you_.”

Adam grinned widely as tears teemed in his blue eyes. “In that case . . .” He took the ring and slipped it onto Belle’s left ring finger. It fit perfectly. The rubies and diamonds sparkled against the firelight. “I take you, Belle, as my wife. I promise to love you, protect you, and honor you until death parts us.”

Belle touched the ring, impressed by the large jewels she felt. “Where did you get it?” she asked.

“It was my mother’s,” Adam said.

Belle’s face dropped. “No, no, I can’t take it. It’s too much—”

“She would want you to have it,” Adam said, stroking her cheek. “It’s part of my birthright, to give to my bride.”

Belle smiled slowly. She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t have a ring for you.”

“I don’t need one,” Adam said.

“No,” she insisted. “This should be as real as possible.” Belle turned her head, thinking, then touched the ring on her right pinky finger. “Here,” she said, slipping it off. “This also belonged to my mother.”

Adam took the ring from Belle, a small silver piece with a red gem. “It’s lovely,” he said. Adam stuck it on his own pinky, the ring barely moving past his first knuckle.

Belle took his hands in hers and said, “I take you, Adam, as my husband. I promise to love you, protect you, and honor you until death parts us.”

There was an awkward pause; no priest to bless them or witnesses to throw rice. Adam stared at Belle—his wife—and felt a great weight lift from inside his body. He could breathe easier. He could see and smell and feel more clearly. He could conquer the world if it gave him the chance.

“Can I kiss you?” Adam asked. He realized it was a funny thing to inquire now that they were wedded, but he was terrified of scaring Belle, especially since the blindfold made her that much more vulnerable.

“Yes,” Belle whispered.

Adam put his hands on either side of Belles face and leaned in to kiss her. He captured her mouth in his softly, gently, his tongue probing timidly as if to say, _is this okay?_

Belle’s body stiffened. It was her first real kiss. She thought it would be wetter or sloppier, but Adam—her husband—knew what he was doing.

As they parted, Belle’s breath caught in her throat. Marriage meant consummation, and though she had fantasized for years about her first time, she couldn’t help but suddenly be nervous. What if he took one look at her naked body and turned away in disgust? What if she couldn’t get him to “rise” to the occasion? What if the pain was too much (women often told her of the pain) and Adam got upset that she couldn’t handle it?

“You’re trembling,” Adam said.

“Yes,” Belle admitted.

He took her hands and said, “We don’t have to do anything. I have no expectations for what comes next.”

Belle considered this. She thought of his long hair, the patch of hair on his chest she had touched earlier. She thought of his strong jaw and lean stomach. Belle though of her dream a few weeks ago—of the faceless stranger who touched and kissed and rubbed against her in the most delightful way. If a dream could be that satisfying, why not her wedding night with the man she loved?

Belle leaned in and kissed Adam. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his fingers entwining in his hair. Adam held onto her back, his tongue massaging hers, teeth grazing her lower lip. A low moan escaped Belle’s mouth as they kissed. She worried that the blindfold would make things harder, but in fact, it just enhanced every other sensation.

They parted, foreheads touching. “I love you,” Adam whispered. “I love you more than anything.”

“I love you, too,” Belle murmured.

Adam moved his lips to her neck, kissing and nuzzling gently. Belle allowed her hand on her husband’s chest, not to push him away, but to feel his heartbeat. It was erratic. She moved his shirt aside to feel more of him and Adam quickly took it off altogether. His lips and teeth and tongue on her neck elicited sparks of energy throughout Belle’s body. Her womanhood throbbed.

“I want to see you,” Adam said, moving his head away from her neck. “Can I—”

“You’ll have to help me,” Belle said breathlessly.

He helped undo the strings and hooks of Belle’s undergarments. She undid her petticoat and let it slip to the floor. The rest of the clothes came off as easily as oil against water. Suddenly, she was naked before him save for the blindfold.

Adam gaped, his eyes clouding over in lust. His prick stood at attention in his breeches as he stared at her small, perfect breasts and hips and legs and the dark, furry patch over her womanhood.

Belle started to cross her arms to cover her breasts, then lowered them. Adam’s silence worried her. “Am I . . . is everything—?”

Adam stopped her mouth with his. He ran his hands down her smooth back, grabbing her ass and lifting her onto the bed. Belle gasped in delight. She smiled as her husband lowered her back and kissed her deeply.

Belle sighed as Adam touched her breast, squeezing gently. He moved his lips down and took it in his mouth, licking and sucking. Belle moaned, her chest heaving with deep breaths. As Adam suckled, she could feel his erection through his breeches, begging to be freed. Belle reached down for his waistband but he stopped her, raising his head.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Belle tilted her head. “What?”

“I want to taste you,” he said. “But I need to know you trust me.”

Belle nodded desperately. “I trust you,” she said.

Adam kissed her lips, then trailed them down her neck, her chest, her belly, until finally kneeling before the bed.

Belle waited in the darkness. Her heart thudded painfully. Adam hooked Belle’s legs over his shoulders, put a hand on the outside of her thigh, then dipped his head between her legs. Suddenly, his tongue was touching the sensitive folds of her opening, lapping and kissing gently.

Belle gasped. She had no idea men could do that, or even wanted to do that. But it felt good, so good—wet and soft and incredibly sensual—that Belle craved it as strongly as a man’s first taste of opiate. Belle cried out and shivered when Adam’s tongue touched her clitoris, swirling and lapping across her wet, pulsing skin.

Belle clutched at the bedspread and pushed her hips closer to Adam’s head. He responded by pulling her nearer and digging his tongue into her wet hole. Belle cried out in ecstasy as her husband buried his face in her privates, licking and suckling and humming as if she were a five-course meal. The pleasure was almost too much, too fast, and Belle felt herself getting wet as she reached that pivotal moment of climax.

Suddenly, Adam moved his head away. He growled, frustrated with his breeches. The prince stood and took them off, his cock springing forth.

“Please . . .” Belle whispered. “Please, please, please.”

It was almost too much to bear. The woman he loved was his for the taking, wriggling on the bed, blindfolded and begging. He thought of all the ways he could have her, then shook his head, remembering that she was still a maiden.

Adam carefully climbed on top of her, kissing her body as he went, and when he got to her face he paused. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Belle nodded. “Yes.”

Adam kissed her deeply and his hard member brushed against her inner thigh. He positioned it on her pubic mound and ground against her, kissing deeply. His cock massaged against her clitoris, but that kind of pleasure wasn’t enough for Belle anymore. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging herself higher, moaning for his cock as their tongues danced together.

Adam obliged. He positioned his erection at her opening and rubbed the head along the outside. Belle was breathless, her head tilted back, lost in darkness and pleasure. She squeezed the covers and whispered, “Please . . . oh, please—”

A rod of lightning pierced her tight, wet hole. Belle cried out, this time in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut as her body slowly got used to Adam’s girth. He kissed her neck and whispered, “It's okay, it's okay,” into her ear. He moved slowly, carefully, thrusting once more until he was finally all the way in.

Belle didn't realize she was holding her breath until her lungs ached. She let out a long sigh, the pain subsiding just a little.

“Are you alright?” Adam asked.

Belle nodded and touched his cheek, a single tear escaping the blindfold and falling down her face. “I love you.”

Adam rubbed his nose against Belle’s and whispered, “I love you, too.”

After a few more thrusts and few more gentle kisses and repositioning of her legs, the pain finally began to give way to pleasure. With every thrust of his hips, Adam was getting close to a spot within Belle that she didn't even know she had, a button of pleasure that ached to be pushed. They found a rhythm and moved together, their bodies joined, grinding against each other like waves in an ocean.

“Oh, God . . .” Belle moaned.

The prince raised himself up on his hands and pushed harder, faster, his wife’s cries of pleasure like music. Sweat beaded Adam’s chest. He grunted and moaned and reached under to squeeze Belle’s ass. “Feels so good,” he murmured. Their bodies slapped together like wet dough on a wooden board

Adam growled again. It wasn’t the growl of a beast, but that of a man feeling intense pleasure and wanting more. Belle gasped and Adam took her wrists and pinned them to the bed with one hand. He was strong and it excited Belle. She was completely at his mercy.

“Please don’t stop,” Belle moaned. “Please, please—”

Adam fucked harder, the bed creaking with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he said.

“Yes—”

“I’m going to—”

“Yes, please. Please, please, I want you to.”

Adam thrust himself inside deeply, moaning and panting as Belle got wetter. Her hips pushed against his desperately. He was deep, so deep, and he was so big she almost couldn’t stand it.

Adam moved quickly, hips pumping as he neared climax. Belle let out a guttural growl of her own, leaned forward, and bit his neck softly, not enough to draw blood. Adam let out a long, rasping cry and came inside of her. Belle sucked and licked on the skin of his neck and he filled her with hot cum. He thrust once, twice, ejaculating the rest of it, then collapsed on top of his wife and struggled to regain his breath.

Belle stroked his hair, wiggling her hips around slightly as he stayed connected within her. He hadn’t finished her off, but that was okay. She didn’t know what time it was, but she knew there was still enough night for them to savor.

Adam released Belle’s wrists and raised his head from his wife’s breast. He was still panting, slick with sweat, and his hair was a mess.

“Are you—?”

“Yes.” Belle smiled and nodded. She was okay. More than okay. “You?”

Adam groaned and buried his face in his wife’s neck. “I'm the luckiest man alive,” he muttered. He kissed her salty skin and raised his head again. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t . . . I forgot to—”

Belle giggled. He had spent himself, but she was left wanting more. She suspected, after tonight, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “You should make it up to me,” she said coyly.

Adam smiled. “Anything. Tell me what you want, I’ll do it.”

He was completely under her thumb. Belle didn’t know if it was her body, the sex, or just his blissful comedown from orgasm that made him so eager to please, but she liked it. She wanted to see how far she could push it. Belle heard the fire crackling across the room and remembered seeing an ornate rug in front of it.

“Take me to the fire,” she said.

Adam lifted Belle up effortlessly, her legs wrapped around his waist. He was flaccid for now, but one long, passionate kiss on the rug by the fire made him hard almost instantly again. They made love again, slower this time, with lingering kisses and fingers trailing along each other’s skin. Adam licked between Belle’s legs again, blowing hot breaths on the silky lips of her opening. He inserted a few fingers as he sucked on her clitoris, surprising Belle, but she relaxed and found she enjoyed the combination. The more his fingers stroked, the wetter she became.

“You taste amazing,” Adam said.

Belle sighed shakily.

“So delicious.”

“ _Ugh_ , yes—”

Adam moved his fingers faster, harder, lapping her up like a dog desperately wanting water. Belle squirmed underneath him, holding his head in her hands to draw him closer. His middle finger brushed against her g-spot and she clenched. Adam stroked the area slowly, deeply, and raised his head.

“No, don't stop,” Belle panted.

He returned his lips and tongue to her sensitive folds. Belle’s toes curled and she tugged Adam’s long hair, getting closer and closer to that point of pure bliss.

“I’m coming,” she cried. “I-I’m—”

Adam pushed his fingers and deeply as they could go. He swirled his tongue around her clit, bringing her closer to the brink.

“I’m coming . . . I’m coming . . .” Belle panted. Her eyes were shut tightly.

Adam removed his lips and brushed a thumb along her throbbing, sensitive mound.

“Aaaaugh!” Belle cried out. Her orgasm hit her in waves, strong at first, bursting like a flower in bloom. As Adam’s finger continued to massage her hole, another wave hit, then another, until she thought she might die from pleasure and stars danced behind the darkness of her eyelids.

Belle’s eyes fluttered open, the blindfold keeping her in unwavering darkness. Adam removed his fingers. They were wet with her cum. He put them in his mouth, sucked away the juices, and wiped his lips on his wrist.

Belle was still panting as he lay beside her. The fire warmed them. He scooped his wife into his arms and she rested her head on his chest, legs quivering. Adam kissed her head, stroking her arm. They lay together silently, catching their breath and reveling in each other’s company.

Finally, Belle asked, “Do you feel any differently?”

Adam chuckled. “I feel more alive than ever.”

“No, I mean . . .” Belle sat up. “Should I take my blindfold off?”

Adam’s face dropped, a twinge of panic piercing his heart. “Why?” he asked.

Belle tilted her head downwards. “I just thought . . . since we’re married now, and it’s been consummated—”

“Can we wait?” Adam asked, sitting up beside her. “Just until dawn? That way we’ll know for sure if the curse has been broken.”

Belle nodded slowly. She was disappointed but understood Adam’s caution. “How much longer do we have?”

Adam strained to look at the clock on the mantle. “Three hours, I think.” He looked at his wife. Even as she was blindfolded, he could tell she was upset. “Darling,” he said, cupping her cheek in his hand. “For the first time in twenty-six years, I feel free. I’m not sad or anxious about what tomorrow brings. I’m . . . _happy_.”

Belle smiled at put her hand over his. “I’m happy, too.”

Adam leaned in and kissed her. They lay back again on the rug, holding each other and whispering declarations of love and the future and even what their children might look like. Adam didn’t let go of Belle’s hand the whole time. He struggled against sleep, terrified that this all was a dream that he would wake from come morning.


	15. Ellira

When Belle awoke, she was in darkness. She panicked for a brief second, worried she had gone blind, then remembered the blindfold over her eyes. She touched it and listened. Adam must have moved her to the bed—she could feel its soft plushness beneath her.

“Adam?” she called.

Silence.

Belle felt around the sheets, and when she was confident she was alone, she slowly took the blindfold off. Adam was gone. Belle wondered if everything had been a dream—feeling the prince’s face, their impromptu marriage, their exhaustive lovemaking—but her naked body and dull throb of discomfort in her womanhood reminded her that it was all real.

She was married.

She was no longer a virgin.

She was indescribably happy.

Belle got out of bed, dressed, and walked across the room to the window. The sky was a sort of blue-black; dawn was still thirty or so minutes away. The fire had died down to embers and there was no sign of her husband’s presence ever being in the room. She touched her chin and pondered.

The curse _had_ to have been broken. Even if the marriage hadn’t nullified it, surely their love for one another did. If Belle’s books taught her anything, it’s that love was the most powerful thing in the world. It could transcend realms, defy warring families, cure ailments, and even stop death.

She loved him. Deeply and passionately, Belle loved him. He was kind and gentle, a generous lover with a playfully wicked streak that made her knees wobble just thinking about it. Belle grinned, her eyes stuck to a spot on the floor. She could still feel the curve of his back as he thrust himself in her, could still feel this throbbing member against her wet opening. She remembered every kiss, every touch, every whisper that sent goosebumps up her spine.

_“For the first time in twenty-six years, I feel free.”_

Adam’s words. The beating of his heart. The warmth of his hands.

He was finally free.

Belle gathered a candelabra and lit the three wicks from the embers of the fire. She slowly opened the bedroom door. Somewhere down the hall, she heard the faint sound of a man snoring.

Belle smiled and tip-toed down the cold corridor. She held a hand in front of the candelabra to keep the flames lit. Belle turned a corner and pressed her ear to a door where the snoring came from. She held onto the brass doorknob, letting it warm in her hand as she thought, _What if I’m wrong?_ What if the curse wasn’t broken after all? What if their efforts were meaningless? Then again, the Enchantress could have struck at any time, killing Belle for wedding her beloved. But everything had gone off without a hitch. What explanation could there be for her absence, other than her silent defeat?

Belle turned the knob slowly and opened the door.

It was another room she had never been in, smaller and plainer with no fireplace or even windows. The darkness was almost overwhelming, until Belle’s eyes adjusted and she could see a man lying on the bed atop the blankets.

Belle stepped carefully towards the bed. Her hand was shaking as she held the candelabra. The man’s snoring weakened and he stirred, startling Belle. She held her breath and stopped at the bedside, leaning over carefully to—

There he was.

Belle gaped. For the first time, she could truly see his face. He was even more beautiful than she imagined—brown hair tousled, stubble surrounding his strong jaw. She drank him in as though it were the first rain in a long, hard drought. Those thick brows. Those boyish ears. The chest hair under his open shirt was as soft as spun silk.

Belle leaned further. A drop of wax fell from one of the candles and landed on Adam’s cheek. He flinched, then awoke abruptly.

Belle gasped and stepped back. He stared at her as though she were a different species. “Belle?”

His wife opened her mouth but no words came out.

“What are you doing?” Adam asked, jumping out of bed.

“I—”

“Why are you here?” he demanded loudly.

“I-I thought—”

Adam looked around the room frantically. “What time is it? Is it dawn?”

A loud _CRASH_ made the pair jump. Belle dropped the candelabra as the floor rumbled beneath them. The prince looked at his wife again and grabbed her by the shoulders. “What have you done?” he cried.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Now I have to marry _her_!” he yelled.

There was another _CRASH_ , then a sound like the roof collapsing three stories above them. A stiff wind blew the bedroom door open. The windows in the corridor shattered, revealing a thick haze of swirling gold smoke.

“Adam!”

“ _Why couldn’t you have waited_!?” he screamed.

The floor beneath them cracked like stale bread. Belle held onto Adam’s arms.

“You have to leave!” he shouted.

“No, I’m not going!” she cried.

The floor cracked again, smoke billowing into the room. Adam and Belle fell to the floor, trapped in a solitary slab of stone as their world literally crumbled around them. Adam pulled Belle into a tight embrace and she buried her head in his chest.

“Stay with me!” he cried. “Whatever happens, stay—”

*          *          *

_Are you sure_

_That we are awake? It seems to me_

_That yet we sleep, we dream._

—William Shakespeare, “A Midsummer’s Night Dream”

*          *          *

Whispers.

“. . . _don’t think any of our_ —”

“ _I know, but . . . found . . . we have_ —”

Blackness.

A cool breeze. The sound of grass swaying. Sunlight on skin.

More whispers.

“ _Don’t look at  . . . maybe she’ll_ —”

“ . . . _probably dead! I didn’t sign up for_ —”

Belle’s eyes opened slowly. There was blue sky as a breeze and golden grass swaying around her and her body felt like liquid and two men were staring down at her, blocking the sunlight.

One was hefty with a mustache and red coat.

The other was tall and handsome, wearing rouge and lipstick and a petticoat over his breeches.

“She’s awake!” the handsome one whispered.

“I can see that,” said the portly one.

“Adam?” Belle murmured. “Adam . . .”

The portly one sighed deeply and said to his comrade, “Well, Stanley, it looks like you’re not the prettiest one in Ellira anymore.”

Stanley frowned at Belle and muttered, “Damn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, obviously there will be a sequel!
> 
> I'm gonna take a few days to recharge and start on the next one. I hope you continue reading! I love you all, and I'm so grateful you chose to read my story!
> 
> Be good to each other.
> 
> Stay with me. ;)


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